The Khajiit Murders
by Laurentius Aaronius
Summary: Alduin is vanquished and Skyrim has its independence, but threats abound for Skyrim, both internal and external. And now a rash of murders is setting the realm on edge. With the killings obviously the handiwork of a Khajiit, public opinion turns against the cat-people. Can Queen Deirdre Morningsong find the killer before Nord prejudice rips Skyrim apart? (20-chapter novella)
1. Chapter 1 - Prologue

_**AN:** __This __longish novella __is inspired by some recent political events in the US and around the world. Let's just say that Skyrim is a good place for exploring xenophobia and ethno-nationalism. Political leaders using scapegoats to whip their followers into a frenzy is an old and disgusting political technique, and we're seeing it too much in the world today, especially right here in the USA._

_The story is set three months after the end of Skyrim's Civil War. It should make sense even if you haven't read my previous Skyrim fanfic, _The Song of Deirdre, _but be warned: it contains big spoilers for that story_. _And if you're coming here with no previous experience of the world of The Elder Scrolls, I look forward to hearing if I've done enough world building._

_It's also an experiment for me in writing from multiple 3rd-person POVs. In addition to Deirdre (the Dragonborn and now High Queen of Skyrim), the other characters you'll hear from are Lydia, J'zargo, and Brelyna. Ralof and Kharjo also tag along for a bit, and various jarls and other characters from the game make an appearance. _

_I hope you enjoy it, and am looking forward to reading your reviews! The work is now complete. (And another note: the fictional editor's introduction and afterword to_ The Song of Deirdre _mention "The Deirdre Manuscripts," which would add a planned Volumes 2 and 3 to her story. But_ The Khajiit Murders_ is separate from that, and takes place between the existing_ Song of Deirdre _and the hypothetical Volumes 2 and 3, which I might get around to writing someday__.)_

* * *

**# # Prologue # #**

On a warm day early in Sun's Height, young Danil Bienne made his way through the forest, a bucket of freshly-picked blueberries swinging from hand to hand. He couldn't wait to turn the gleanings over to his mother in Dragon Bridge, then get back to playing with his best friend, Addvar. Maybe they'd go down to the Karth River and stage twig-boat races. Or better yet, get out the wooden swords and play at being the soldiers they hoped to one day become, defending Skyrim from all its foes. There was no such thing as too much practice if a lad wanted to make it into one of the elite corps.

Just now, the newly independent province offered many paths for a youth filled with dreams of martial glory. Skyrim had just earned its freedom from the Empire and Nords now had the right to worship their hero-god Talos. A Civil War over a god! That didn't make much sense. All Danil knew was that his homeland now faced many threats on all sides.

Three months past, the Stormcloaks had marched through town, fresh from liberating Whiterun from the High Elves, and on their way to battle with the Empire's forces in the great city of Solitude. He'd clambered onto the roof of his family home to get a better look at the ranks of soldiers marching by, led by Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak of Windhelm, his face set and grim. At the jarl's side rode his supporters and allies: Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric's chief lieutenant, with a scowl to match his leader's; Ralof of Riverwood, an eager young Stormcloak who jested with his companions even as they rode toward a great siege; Lydia Ravenwood, the Hero of Whiterun, her steel armor and black hair glinting in the spring sunshine. And finally, Deirdre Morningsong, clad in dark mages' robes with a hood partially hiding her face. Her slight stature and pensive demeanor gave no hint of the power that could defeat a god.

On that day, Danil had been sure that Ulfric was marching to be crowned the new High King of Skyrim, a prospect that had dampened his own hopes of becoming a soldier. Would an army whose battle cry was "Skyrim is for the Nords!" welcome him, a Breton? But the world of adults was confusing for a lad of eleven summers, and nothing had turned out the way he'd expected. There hadn't even been a battle, or so he'd heard. Ulfric wanted to make an example of the few Imperial soldiers still loyal to their mad general, but Deirdre had pushed to spare them. Then Ulfric and Deirdre had dueled in the ancient Nord way, using the Power of the Voice. Deirdre's _Thu'um_ had proven the greater.

Now Ulfric was back in Windhelm and Deirdre had been named High Queen by the jarlmoot. Ralof, not Galmar, was general of Skyrim's new army. And Lydia was the queen's housecarl, captain of her Royal Guard, and her consort.

Best of all, the queen had proclaimed that from now on Skyrim would be for all peoples, not just the Nords. And since Deirdre herself was half Nord and half Breton, many Breton youths were now volunteering to serve in her army. It was indeed a new day in the province, with many new opportunities. But now he had another problem: deciding where he'd rather serve, with Ralof's forces down in Whiterun, or with the Royal Guard under Lydia's command. He guessed he'd see more action in the regular army, but gain greater glory with the elite guards, not to mention the opportunity to hear Lydia's tales of battle and of slaying dragons alongside the Dragonborn. It was a thorny question.

He came out of the forest and onto the road leading home. The sun was high, shining down through the opening the road made through the trees, warming him after the chill of standing in the bog where the best berries grew. The bushes on either side of the road were alive with the twittering of birds and the air carried the fresh scent of pines. After months of his parents keeping him indoors, it felt great to be outside, even on such a boring errand.

His mother had many excuses for the forced confinement. First it was the stupid dragons, and then it was the stupid war. "We'll not risk losing you to either sword or claw," she'd said. Alduin World-Eater had returned, the most fearsome dragon ever to soar above Tamriel. And not just a dragon, but a god. Alduin had resurrected an army of fire-, frost-, and blood-dragons, and then Deirdre, the Dragonborn, had vanquished him. Some said she'd chased him all the way down the death-road to Sovngarde to finish him off. No one had witnessed that final battle save Tsun, the ancient Nord god of trials against adversity. Still, Danil hadn't even seen claw or scale of the countless dragons that had marauded the countryside and towns all through the fall. It didn't seem fair.

Once the dragons were gone, his parents still kept him inside, even though the great battles of the war were all far away in Falkreath, Riften, and the two great sieges of Whiterun. He'd counted himself lucky to be let outside to watch the Stormcloaks march through town on their way to victory. But the freedom promised by that day turned out to be short-lived. The dragons were gone, the war was over, and his parents were finally considering whether conditions were safe enough for him to roam free. And then tensions between the town's Nord majority and its Breton minority, always on a low simmer, threatened to boil over. Danil didn't know what it was about, only that Addvar could no longer visit his house.

You'd think the High Queen being from Dragon Bridge would make the towns-people proud, but it was more like they were ashamed, the way they kept quiet about it. Something to do with the murder of the queen's parents, years ago, judging by what he'd overheard his mother whispering. And then Queen Deirdre and Lydia and Jarl Elisif were all coming to town for the trial, and he didn't even get to see that. Not because he'd been kept indoors, but because his parents had chosen to leave town and visit Aunt Francine down in Rorikstead. And even then, they'd traveled at night, so it wasn't really like being outside at all.

That had been over a month before, at the end of Second Seed. Even after returning to town to find the atmosphere more relaxed, and Addvar's parents apologetic, it was well into the month of Midyear before he'd been given his freedom. He'd hardly been indoors since.

On such a pleasant day, with neither dragon to be glimpsed nor clash of shields to be heard, he'd scoffed at the worried looks his mother gave him as he headed out the door. What did she think could happen to him, a future brave soldier of Skyrim?

He was still pondering his future when he heard a wagon approaching fast from around a bend in the road ahead. He stepped to one side as the wagon appeared, pulled by a pair of horses straining to make it go even faster. Their eyes bulged and their mouths foamed as they thundered past. He didn't see a driver, not in the seat, not in the back laden with goods, nor even chasing after it down the road. The wagon looked like the one belonging to Heimvar Snow-mane, a trader who passed through Dragon Bridge every couple of weeks. Danil continued up the road, planning to tell the first town guard or other adult what he'd seen.

He'd walked a quarter-hour or so when he spotted a lump off to the side of the road. The lump moved as he got closer — a man, lying on his side, with his back to Danil. He looked as if he could be sleeping, curled up the way he was, save for his head pointing downhill into the ditch. That couldn't be too comfortable. He had blond hair just like Heimvar's.

The head moved as Danil approached and now the boy saw blood splattering the man's tan tunic. One sleeve was partly torn away to reveal a shoulder and arm slick with more blood. And this wasn't the worst. The man was cradling his abdomen. Danil didn't want to look at what he was holding there. He concentrated on the man's face, trying to fight down the sick feeling growing in his stomach.

Heimvar's face was deathly pale, save for two bright red claw marks on his cheek. The blue eyes, wide at first with fright, relaxed when he recognized the boy.

"Lad," he said, though even that single syllable seemed to be a struggle. "Help… please…"

Danil stood there, not knowing what to do.

"Go…" the man pleaded. "Get… help…" Then he closed his eyes against the pain.

With that instruction, Danil dropped his bucket and ran as fast as his feet would carry him toward Dragon Bridge.


	2. Chapter 2 - Arrest

**# # Arrest # #**

"Court mage to Queen Deirdre of Skyrim!" J'zargo of Elsweyr exclaimed. "It is this one's next step on the road to greatness. What glories will J'zargo not attain!" The Khajiit's long feline tail flicked back and forth on the rump of his horse.

"Co-mage, don't forget, you arrogant cat." Brelyna Maryon's red eyes glared at her companion and sometime lover, but he didn't notice, his own eyes were so firmly fixed on the glories of his imagined future, rather than on the road ahead of them. They were on their way to Solitude, and Brelyna hoped they would reach the city this evening, as scheduled. Showing up late for one's appointment with the queen would hardly do, friends though they were.

"And before you get your hopes up," she went on, "remember that Skyrim is but one former province of what used to be a great empire. How it will stand on its own, threatened by both the Altmer and the Empire, I know not. I can only hope Deirdre has a better idea. I don't believe this throne was anything she ever sought."

"Pffft. Who wouldn't seek such a lofty position, especially a mage of such power, and born to a great destiny, such as our friend? We will provide her with wise counsel, which one so young surely requires."

"Ha, you've hardly seen more winters than she. And I am older, but still in the youth of a Dunmer. No, our appointments have more of the college grapevine about them than our magical powers or wisdom."

J'zargo gave a soft _hrmmph,_ and they lapsed into silence.

An odder couple could hardly be imagined. Not just because she was an elf and he a Khajiit, one of the cat-people of Elsweyr. No, it was his arrogance and self-centeredness, in contrast to her own lack of confidence, that had surprised their friends, Deirdre and Lydia, when they first became a couple.

Brelyna was as surprised as anyone. When she'd first met the cocky Khajiit at the College of Winterhold, nearly a year ago now, she could hardly stand him, with all his boasting and ambition. Whereas she just hoped to not disappoint her family too badly with her lackluster talents in the magical arts. No mediocrity was tolerated among the scions of Morrowind's House Telvanni. After months at the college, she'd finally overcome her mental block against alteration magic, and more recently she'd been pleased to write her family informing them that their daughter was about to enter the service of Skyrim's new High Queen.

She'd left out her relationship with J'zargo. They'd surely disapprove of anyone less exalted than a distant Telvanni cousin; failing that, a strategic alliance with a noble of House Redoran might be acceptable. But a Khajiit! Her mother would probably require all the flin in Solstheim to revive her upon hearing such news.

The circumstances of their pairing were certainly understandable. Thrown together in a strange city after the grief and horror of the siege and retreat from Whiterun, Onmund dead, Lydia grievously wounded, and Deirdre preoccupied with trying to heal her – they'd had no one else to turn to for comfort. If she'd had to guess back then how long their relationship would last, she'd have given it a few weeks at most, long enough for the grief to subside and the initial burst of attraction to ebb.

But it had persisted, with a few spats, through the remainder of the war and their return to the college. Even J'zargo's boasting of his prowess with females of all races, equal to his powers as a mage, had lessened of late. He'd grown more attentive to her wishes and needs, as opposed to his former self-preoccupation. She was sure their friends would hardly recognize him.

But now, as they neared Solitude, J'zargo's boastful nature was having a renascence. He's just excited over his new appointment, she told herself.

They emerged from a small grove of trees and the town of Dragon Bridge was laid out before them on the opposite side of the Karth River. The place was aptly named. Twin dragon heads carved from stone loomed over the bridge crossing the mighty river. Before the return of Alduin, these carvings had been mere quaint oddities depicting beasts from fable and myth. Now they served as grim reminders of the very real terror that had gripped Skyrim just a few short months before. Brelyna shivered at those fearsome visages as she and J'zargo rode beneath them. She'd never faced a dragon in the flesh, only an undead serpent in skeletal form, but that had been bad enough.

Two town guards stood at attention at the other end of the bridge. In these more peaceful times, most guards had returned to their usual habit of greeting travelers with a curt "Citizen" or "No lollygaggin'." But as soon as these two caught a glimpse of Brelyna and her companion, they drew their swords and moved to block the exit from the bridge.

"Halt!" one said. "Dismount now. And no magical funny business."

Brelyna drew her horse to a stop, as did J'zargo. But the Khajiit — foolish cat! — wouldn't be ordered around so brusquely.

"Nord soldiers know not to whom they speak," he said in a low growl. "This one is on important business to your queen. We have no time for your petty concerns."

"J'zargo…" Brelyna began, already preparing a lecture about not provoking the Nords' well-known bigotry against outlanders. But there was no time for that. Turning back to the guards, she said, "Please forgive my companion's rude behavior, but he speaks true. Queen Deirdre expects us in Solitude this evening at the latest."

"That may be, but we have our orders to question and search any outlanders — especially Khajiits. Now dismount!" As if to underscore the guard's threat, another soldier emerged from the guard house, bow drawn, an arrow aimed at J'zargo's chest.

Brelyna reached out a restraining hand to her companion, who was making ready to cast a spell. "Don't be a fool, J'zargo. Let us do as the guards say." He looked over at her, his eyes blazing with indignation. "Please, J'zargo."

"Very well," he said as he dismounted. "But when Queen Deirdre hears of this…" His words were cut off as a guard pushed him to face the bridge railing. Another did the same with Brelyna and she had to catch herself with both hands to avoid hitting the railing or toppling over it. The guard patted her mage's robes roughly, with no regard for the dignity of her person. From the other side of the bridge came the grunts and scrapes of a struggle. "No, you silly Khajiit, don't resist!" she called. But now more guards were running over. They soon had J'zargo subdued.

"Perhaps if you told us what this is about, you'd get more cooperation," she said, marshaling all the hauteur she could remember from her mother's dealings with recalcitrant shopkeepers and the like. Her words met only silence. She was about to go on but broke off as the guards turned her around. One of the guards near J'zargo was staggering away, clutching his face where J'zargo had clawed him.

The one with the bow went over to the wounded soldier and examined the wounds. "This proves it!" he said, pointing to his colleague. "These are the same marks the murderer left on Heimvar's face, and on the Jurards as well!" He turned to where J'zargo was being held with his hands tied behind his back. "You'll pay, you bloody Khajiit!" The archer stepped toward J'zargo, dropping his bow and pulling a dagger from his belt.

"No!" Brelyna shouted, struggling against her own captors.

"That's enough!" said a newcomer, who appeared to be in authority. "The jarl will see to their punishment, both the Khajiit and his Dark Elf accomplice. Lock them up."

With that, they frog-marched Brelyna and J'zargo into town and shoved them into adjacent cells in the town jail.


	3. Chapter 3 - Many Duties

**# # Many Duties # #**

Morning light filtered grayly in through the tall, narrow windows of the Queen's bedchamber, illuminating the book Lydia Ravenwood was reading. She'd chosen this spot strategically, as she did most mornings, in a chair near the east wall where she could see both the door and the large canopied bed where her queen lay sleeping. Though the book was well lit, Lydia remained in shadow, a short-sword and dagger at the ready, her axe and shield leaning against the wall nearby. Her eyes followed the same rigorous pattern — read a sentence, look to the door, to the windows opposite, to the bed, then back to the book. Should another attempt be made on the queen's life, she would be on the intruders in an instant.

Three months into Deirdre Morningsong's reign, and already three assassination attempts. Three too many by Lydia's count, and she blamed herself for all of them. None had come close to succeeding, but it was still her duty — and more than duty — to prevent such attempts in the first place. Over a month had passed since the last, yet fear kept her vigilant. She never left Deirdre's side while she was sleeping, and made sure she was well guarded when their duties kept them apart.

_Fear._ Not a word she was much familiar with. Fear had always been for milk-drinkers and those helpless citizens Lydia had been sworn to protect as a retainer to Jarl Balgruuf of Whiterun. Since being named Deirdre's housecarl, she had seen much — Dwemer halls filled with strange, aggressive machines and vicious Falmer, labyrinthine crypts crawling with draugr and dragon priests. And the dragons themselves, of course. During none of it had she felt anything she could call fear. Even during the Retreat from Whiterun, and during her torture by the Thalmor justiciars, she'd felt only battle rage, as befit a shield-maiden of Skyrim. No fainting lasses need apply.

But now she found her heart catching in her throat if Deirdre was even a few minutes late returning from an errand to the Blue Palace. Where her nerves had always been steady, now she jumped at the slightest sound out of the ordinary, if Deirdre was nearby. Open battle she'd accept gladly over this constant threat of another sneaking, cowardly attack from behind.

Part of it had to do with their new abode. Castle Dour. Lydia couldn't imagine a more apt name for the place, with its dark, stone walls, deep shadows in the corners, and a chill in its stale air even now at the height of summer. Though the walls were of thick stone no army could sunder, its narrow, twisting corridors hardly gave a feeling of security. She could never be sure what was hiding in the shadows of even the most well-guarded hallway, or what might be lurking around the next corner.

At least she got out into the bailey every day to drill the royal guard. But Deirdre had been cooped up for months now in meetings with her counselors, as few as they were, and with emissaries from the other holds or from the East Empire Company. Her only respites from the grim castle had been short walks to the Blue Palace for consultations with Haafingar Hold's Jarl Elisif and her steward, Falk Firebeard. The irony was that, of all people Lydia had known, Deirdre was the one who relished being out-of-doors the most.

Scanning the room for the thousandth time, she saw Deirdre stirring. One bare arm reached out across the bed to the empty spot Lydia had vacated two hours before. Deirdre gave a groan, as she did every morning to find her bed empty. A moment later she raised her head and found Lydia in her accustomed spot.

"I hope that's a trashy novel you're reading."

Lydia tipped the cover to show her the title - _Mixed Unit Tactics_.

"Of course, I should have known. And you're ready for battle, I see. In case an assassin should somehow make it past the many guards at the door, or slip through windows too narrow even to admit much light."

_Ready for battle_ was a bit much. She was wearing only a padded gambeson, not even her full plate armor. "I am sworn to protect you with my life, my Queen."

Deirdre held out her hand. "As my housecarl, yes. But as my wife, you are sworn to greet me with a morning kiss — at the least. Is this any way to treat your queen?"

Lydia went over and sat on the bed, leaning down to fulfill one of her more pleasurable duties, glad she'd rubbed her teeth with mint from the kitchen gardens. She straightened up and looked into her lover's blue-green eyes.

"What time is it?" Deirdre asked.

"Late. I let you sleep in. You've had so many cares these past weeks, and so many late nights with your counselors, I thought you could use it." She scanned Deirdre's face, troubled by her increasingly wan complexion and gaunt features, with a new care line appearing nearly every week.

Deirdre made to stretch, but then threw her arms around Lydia's neck, pulling her back down for another embrace. "Still, we can stay here a bit longer, don't you think? Even when we were chasing Alduin, and even at the height of the Civil War, we found time to laze together of a morning, and why not now? I can hardly persuade you out of that gambeson at bedtime, and have to settle for the leather brigandine. You must admit, it's hardly romantic."

"I know, my love, but…"

"Oh, I suppose I can't blame you, and should feel glad for the added security, but I can't help wishing you'd pay as much attention to the duties of a wife as to those of a housecarl."

"Someday…" Lydia sat up and slapped her on the thigh. "But now we both have duties to attend to. I have some new drills in mind for your royal guard. And maybe our friends will arrive today. I hope everything's all right with them."

"I'm worried about them too, but probably just some accident on the road has delayed them. And since today was to be devoted to showing them their new home and going over their duties, I suddenly find I have the day free." She reached out and grasped Lydia's hand to detain her.

"I can guess what you're going to suggest, judging by that twinkle in your eye."

"It's a fine day out. Why don't we go riding, just the two of us. I'll be very safe with you there. It will be just like old times. Maybe we could find a secluded swimming hole, only this time no college mages will interrupt us."

Lydia smoothed a stray strand of blond hair away from Deirdre's face. A day away from the cares of their duties might be just what they both needed. "I'll consider it. But my troops await me. I must at least set them to some tasks before we desert our posts. And Sonja is probably waiting impatiently just outside the door."

Deirdre rolled her eyes at this mention of her lady's maid. Lydia knew how much she chafed at these trappings of royalty. Deirdre had wanted none of it, neither the fine clothes, nor the help with dressing and undressing. ("There's only one person I want undressing me, and that's too seldom these days," she'd said just last week.) But Jarl Elisif had insisted, loaning Sonja from her own household. Standards must be maintained, the office must be respected, it is what the people expect, or so Elisif had said.

"Fine, but tell her to bring me the riding outfit, not those fine trousers and fancy shoes."

Lydia found Sonja just outside the door, as she'd expected, and gave her the new instructions. Then she went out to the bailey, finding that her sergeant had already gotten the men and women doing their usual morning drills. She barked a couple of reprimands at the younger ones. Many were the lads and lasses of Haafingar Hold who had joined the army so they would have a chance of coming under her command, out of a mixture of admiration and pure childish crushes. A few had even earned their way into the Royal Guard on their own merits, and with these she was more strict than usual. Not that she didn't appreciate the admiration, but volunteering for service for the wrong reasons could get these Nordlings killed. Enough innocents had already fallen under her command. She didn't need any more on her conscience.

Seeing that the drills were well in hand, she turned her thoughts to Deirdre's proposal. Maybe now was the time to let up on the relentless pace they'd both followed these past months. Perhaps the guard could even use a holiday. As for the realm itself, Lydia supposed that no true emergencies remained to demand the Queen's immediate attention. The threat of post-war famine had abated as spring progressed into summer. The milk and honey were flowing once more, the first wheat harvest had been bounteous, despite the disruption in the planting season, and game was plentiful. Trade with Cyrodiil and High Rock, those remnants of the much-reduced Empire, had been fully restored. For now, the daily needs of the people were being met by the jarls of Skyrim's nine holds.

On the surface, all was peace and prosperity. The Nords were happy now that they could once again worship Talos. They even seemed to be getting along better with the other peoples who called Skyrim home. In Windhelm, Jarl Ulfric had proclaimed that the Dunmer and the Argonians could live where they pleased, and he'd begun a public works project to improve conditions in the lower parts of the city. Even the Khajiit traders were free to enter Windhelm, though they most often stayed in their camps across the White River estuary. Closer at hand, the Nords and Bretons of Deirdre's home town of Dragon Bridge treated each other more as neighbors and friends than they ever had.

But looming over these amicable days was the constant threat of attack, most likely by the Altmer of the Summerset Isles, whose Thalmor ruling faction was Oblivion-bent on dominating the rest of Tamriel. They were the true source of the Stormcloaks' rebellion against the Empire, after all. A generation back, the Thalmor had pushed the Emperor into banning Talos worship as a condition of ending the Great War. And they'd policed the ban themselves, reserving the right of their spies and justiciars to patrol the province and arrest its citizens as they pleased. It was a wonder the Nords had put up with it for twenty-five years, until Ulfric Stormcloak led the uprising.

And what wouldn't the High Elves do now, after the humiliation Deirdre and Ulfric had given them at Whiterun? With the expedient solution of assassination having failed three times now, they were surely planning the only other alternative available: all-out assault.

Skyrim was as ready as could be for such an attack. Under the leadership of Ralof of Riverwood, the armies had been recruiting and training without cease. Border outposts had been reinforced and the cities well-stocked and armed. And even now, a new fleet of longships was nearly ready to launch onto the Bay of Solitude, from whence they would fan out to fend off any attack by sea. There was little more they could do to fortify the realm's defenses, though it was hard to know when enough was enough.

No, what Skyrim needed, Deirdre told her repeatedly, was allies: Hammerfell, Orsinium, Black Marsh, even Morrowind, as weakened as that land was after the Red Year. She had ideas as to how best to approach these realms — and even the provinces of High Rock and Elsweyr, as loyal as the one was to the Empire and the other to the Aldmeri Dominion — but she was keeping all of it to herself. "When Brelyna and J'zargo arrive," was all she would say.

With no sign of their friends, and with everything seemingly well in hand here, a day off couldn't hurt. Maybe if they rode toward Dragon Bridge, they'd even come across their friends, although she knew Deirdre wanted only to escape into the wilderness, not stay to the main roads.

She was telling the sergeant about the change of plans when she noticed a messenger, out of breath, dashing into the main door of the castle. The troops had just gathered around to hear the good news when the door of the castle burst open again and out ran Deirdre, hair half-braided and Sonja chasing behind her with her forgotten crown.

Deirdre waved a note at her. "From Elisif. Another murder in Dragon Bridge, a whole family this time."

Lydia looked at her in confusion. One murder was bad enough, but that had been five days before. Now a whole family? "That's terrible! But what of Elisif and Falk — shouldn't they handle this one as well, as awful as it is?" It seemed there was little they could do, as this was Jarl Elisif's domain. The High Queen couldn't concern herself with every murder in Skyrim, even those that happened nearby.

"No, it's Brelyna and J'zargo!"

Even more confused now, she took the note Deirdre shoved at her as she ran to call for the horses. The message was hastily scrawled, in language far from the carefully chosen words Elisif usually employed.

_My Queen,_ _Another murder in Dragon Bridge — four this time — a whole family, children. More evidence of Khajiit involvement. Citizens unruly, demanding justice. Falk and I ride now to keep the peace. Two suspects arrested, say they were on their way to meet you. A Dunmer and a Khajiit, Brelyna Maryon and J'zargo. Please come!_ _—Elisif_

Lydia dropped the note and ran after her queen.


	4. Chapter 4 - In Jail

**# # In Jail # #**

J'zargo roused himself from the stupor into which he'd fallen since the hold guards had thrown him into this makeshift cell. The town jail was a one-room building with two cells of hastily thrown-together steel bars taking up a quarter of it. A solid wall separated the two cells; no fraternizing among the prisoners, apparently. At first, after they'd pushed him in here, and put Brelyna somewhat less roughly into the adjacent cell, he'd been consumed by plans for revenge on these insolent Nords who dared insult his pride. Then he'd tried to sleep, but failed, given the racket of the growing mob outside the jail. The noise had subsided in the wee hours, but still sleep wouldn't come. He could hear Brelyna pacing in the cell next door, but every time they tried to talk, the guards rapped on the cell bars with their swords, telling them to keep quiet.

The crowds had returned with the morning light. Occasional shouts made it through the unintelligible din, mostly calling for the cat's head on a pike. Which only reminded him of the pain in his head from the lump one of the guards had given him before they brought him down. Well, he thought, at least J'zargo gave better than he got.

Now he was relying on those same guards to keep him and Brelyna safe from the mob outside. They kept the door firmly barred, but this did little to allay his fears. If the crowd were to burst in, he would show them what a Khajiit mage could do, going out in one last blaze of greatness. For the time being, he'd tried to ignore them, falling into a state half-dreaming and half-wakeful.

But now the crowd hushed at the clatter of horses' hooves on the cobbled road approaching from the north. He sat up. This must be Deirdre, come to release him and Brelyna. Good. Everyone would see J'zargo had the queen's favor. That would show these impudent Nord peons.

Instead of the immediate succor he'd expected, he heard a woman's voice he didn't recognize. It was too soft for him to make out her words, but the crowd's grumbling grew more strident. Then a man's voice rose above them. Something about justice being served, but it would take time. This only caused more grumbling. "The only thing that needs serving is the cat's head on a platter!" one called.

"Enough!" That was Lydia's voice, no mistake. The crowd went silent, allowing J'zargo to hear the clatter of Lydia's armor as she dismounted and the clank of her steel boots striking the pavement. "That's a hero of Whiterun you're talking about. Without J'zargo, and Brelyna as well, many Nordlings and Nord women would have perished at the hands of the High Elves. Now make way for your Queen, and we will get to the bottom of this." J'zargo's anticipation at seeing his friends was rivaled only by his surprise at Lydia's words of praise. For J'zargo's greatness to be recognized at last, and from such an unexpected source!

There was the sound of shuffling feet, and J'zargo imagined the crowd parting as Lydia marched up the steps, Deirdre and the rest following in her wake. The crowd muttered, but now it sounded as if the people were turning over all that Lydia had said. At last the door opened and there was Lydia, her plate armor glinting in the morning sun for a moment before she stepped over the threshold.

She looked over at J'zargo and Brelyna, a smile playing across her lips. "Well, friends, a fine pickle you've found yourselves in, eh?" Behind her came Deirdre, dressed for riding in a tunic, loose trousers, and boots. This was an improvement over her usual arch-mage's robes. It was a pity these females had to hide their seductive forms in such heavy raiment, but this seemed to be the way of Skyrim, where these mild days were what they called summer. The crown Deirdre wore was quite becoming, at least.

Behind Deirdre came another woman, also wearing a crown-like circlet, and a tall man with a red beard. The guards at the door, having dropped to one knee on Deirdre's entrance, now rose, welcoming her and Jarl Elisif in turn, then gesturing toward the cells.

J'zargo tried to speak, demanding to be let out at once, but the words caught in his throat, ending in a rough cough.

"What's the matter, got a hairball?" the nearest guard said. "Kneel before the High Queen of Skyrim!"

"There's no need for that," Deirdre said before J'zargo could protest. He'd felt great respect for his friend and former classmate, ever since she'd helped him test his flame cloak spell back in their first days at the college. But kneeling before anyone? Not the great J'zargo!

"I don't like all this kneeling, in the first place," Deirdre went on, "though Jarl Elisif has convinced me my subjects must maintain respect for my position. And neither of you are citizens of Skyrim, but our guests, so there's no need at all. But come, you sound parched. Have you had no food or drink? Guards, release them! And bring refreshment." She turned to the one the guards had called Elisif. "With your Jarl's permission, of course."

"With both you and Lydia vouching for them, I see no reason not to release them from their cells. Falk?" The redbeard next to her nodded, though he looked none too happy.

There was some to-do with finding the holder of the keys. While they waited, Deirdre said, "Lydia's right, this is a fine mess you've landed in. How did it ever come about?" J'zargo knew she was merely trying to lighten the mood, but he was glad that his throat was still too dry for speech.

"Other than ride into town at the wrong moment, you mean?" Brelyna's tone was thick with sarcasm, yet it was still good to hear her voice. "Other than that, I have no idea. And from the sound of that crowd, it's no joking matter."

Deirdre grew more sober. "No, I have some experience with Nord mobs driven by fear. And the murders were truly ghastly, by all accounts. But still, it's not the worst scrape you've been in, if I'm not mistaken. Nothing compared to the dragon priest of Labyrinthian, or an army of High Elves."

"If you put it that way," said Brelyna, sounding unconvinced.

"Rest assured, this will soon be behind you."

The cells were opened and J'zargo was glad to receive a hug from Deirdre and a sisterly clap on the shoulder from Lydia. Hugging her through all that armor would have brought no pleasure anyway. Brelyna turned to clasp him tightly. "You silly fool," she said in his ear. "I thought you were going to get yourself killed." She held him at arm's length and put on her most lecturing expression.

"Pffft. Those silly Nord guards would have died first," he croaked, "if J'zargo hadn't restrained himself."

"Now friends," Deirdre said, serving them herself from the pitcher and mugs a guard had brought over. "We'll sort that out later. Refresh yourselves for now — please." She looked around the one-room building. "Is there nothing else at hand? No ale? No food?"

"Only a bit of hardtack, your Grace. It's just a makeshift jail, and rarely used."

"Then send across the street to the Four Shields. Give my compliments to Faida and bring back a flagon of mead, a pot of juniper tea, and whatever in the way of a late breakfast she can put together. I had no time to break my fast before riding here, and I'm sure these two are starved."

J'zargo's voice was working better now. "This one looks forward to the repast, of course, but wonders even more, when do we get out of this place?"

A pained look crossed Deirdre's face, and she glanced at Elisif. "Were it up to me, I'd have you out of here right now. But this is Elisif, Jarl of Haafingar Hold, and I must allow her to do the duty of her office. Then there's the crowd outside. It will do no good to antagonize them."

Falk stepped in for the first time. "The captain of the guard is on his way to Rorikstead to check out your story…"

"It is no story," J'zargo growled, "it is the truth!"

"Then your statement, if you will, that you passed through Rorikstead at mid-day. If he corroborates that fact, then you are exonerated and you can go free. He should be back before evening. It will take longer to confirm your presence in Whiterun on the day before, but there will be no need to wait that long."

"And until then we are to remain here, with that crowd outside, baying for our blood?"

"You must have heard Captain Ravenwood's words before we entered," said Elisif. "She calmed them considerably, where we could not. I promise you, the people will do you no harm. I've stationed additional guards outside the building to keep the peace. But you must see we need to investigate every trail of evidence that could lead us to the culprit behind these terrible deeds. Releasing suspects with no investigation will only undermine our authority and further jeopardize your safety."

"On top of that," said Falk, "we've made no headway in solving the first crime, though it pains me to say it. If we had better success, this second one might not have happened. Now is not the time to appear to be slacking off."

"So that's what this is, a show to keep the people calm?" J'zargo swished his tail back and forth, a bad habit whenever he tried to control his anger.

"We understand completely," said Brelyna. "Don't we, J'zargo?" He grunted as she dug him in the ribs. "I can only imagine how the people are feeling. A whole family murdered in their own home! And this the second such crime. No one must feel safe."

"But why do they suspect a Khajiit? This land has many creatures with sharp claws."

Here Falk looked uncomfortable. "Because of the claw marks left on the bodies, unlike any seen in wild animal attacks, but very similar to the marks you made on that guard's face. And… bits of… fur, or hair, found near the bodies, and even under the fingernails of the mother. She must have fought desperately for her life and those of her children."

Elisif shivered. "It's too awful to contemplate."

"In fact…" Falk turned to one of the guards. "Do you have a sample of the hair you found?"

"Aye, sir." The guard went to a desk in one corner of the room and brought back a folded piece of paper.

Falk removed a tuft of hair from within it and looked it over. "If you'll forgive me…" he said to J'zargo, and held the hair up next to his face. "You must admit, it is very like your own, not like the fur of a wolf or bear, though this sample is a bit more yellow in color."

"That proves it! As you can see, J'zargo's hair ranges from cream to gray and black."

"Yes, what I can see of it. But I would spare you the indignity of showing me all of your fur. In fact, we don't know what, if any, clothing the culprit wore. We do know he was barefoot, and the footprints found at both crime scenes further confirm that this was the work of a Khajiit. If it wasn't so dangerous to move you right now, I'd take you to the Jurards' house and compare your own print to the one made by the killer."

"Ha! What Khajiit would go barefoot in this cold land? J'zargo always wears boots, as you can see. No Khajiit would give himself away by taking his shoes off before committing a crime. Not that this one ever has to think about such matters."

J'zargo didn't like the way Falk's eyes bored into him now, as if deciding whether he spoke true, or perhaps protested too much. J'zargo held his gaze.

Finally Falk looked away. "I have yet to examine the bodies or visit the crime scene myself. I will take my leave, and we'll hope your alibi proves your innocence."

"And I must join you," Elisif said, swallowing. J'zargo guessed that examining bodies was the last duty she wanted to take on.

"Lydia and I will come as well," said Deirdre, "if you don't mind our assistance. We'll join you once I am sure my friends are well provided for."

Falk and Elisif left, and the four friends sat down at the long plank table at one end of the room. It was hardly the reunion J'zargo had been looking for, but soon breakfast arrived and they began reminiscing about old times between mouthfuls of eggs and cheese.

They could recall none of their shared adventures without remembering the one now absent: Onmund, their companion and fellow student at Winterhold, who had fallen during the retreat from Whiterun. J'zargo found himself sniffing as they each recounted their fondest memory of their friend. For Brelyna it was the time in Labyrinthian when Onmund had surprised them all by knowing the spell of detect magic. "Without that spell, we would all still be wandering around in there."

For Deirdre, it was Onmund befriending her on her first days at the college. "No offense to either of you, but Brelyna, you were so touchy about your magical skills I never knew what to say, and J'zargo, you were so, well… so _J'zargo._ Onmund was the only one I could talk to without either giving or taking offense. And he could certainly put away that Colovian fire brandy." The three mages laughed, remembering cold nights around a roaring bonfire in the circular courtyard of the college.

Lydia now spoke up. "You all know my first impression of Onmund wasn't the greatest. He seemed so timid at first. But he proved himself in the end. He was steadfast in Alftand and Blackreach." She gave a laugh. "That time he attacked the mechanical spider left by the Dwemer! He didn't know what he was getting into, but he was determined to show he was no coward. To think how I underestimated him!"

"Yes, that took quite a bit of healing, if I'm not mistaken," said Brelyna. "But tell me, do you remember anything of him during the retreat from Whiterun? You must have been one of the last to see him."

That was true, J'zargo thought. He and Brelyna had been busy across the river, shielding the retreating children and elders with their ward spells while Lydia and Onmund and the remaining warriors held the bridge. He'd never heard Lydia talk of it.

Nor did he now. "I'd rather not speak of that," Lydia said, her eyes suddenly downcast.

J'zargo had heard the tale from the other warriors who stood with Lydia after the poisoned arrow found a gap in her armor: Aela and Vilkas dragging her from the field, the elves advancing on them, then Onmund racing past, blasting the elves with fireballs and lightning bolts, shouting "For Lydia!" and "For Skyrim!" and "For Deirdre!", then falling in a hail of arrows. He'd bought the warriors the time they needed to pull Lydia back to safety. Even thinking about it still made him sniff and his eyes grow unusually wet.

Everyone was sniffling now, even the guards standing nearby, and they raised their glasses to their dead friend. "To Onmund!"

"Just think," said J'zargo, setting his glass down. "If only Onmund could have been with us yesterday. Maybe it would have prevented this mess."

"Is that all you can think about?" Lydia demanded. "That having a Nord along might have saved your skin?" Now that was the Lydia he knew of old, never putting up with his nonsense, though he preferred to think of it as confidence, mingled with more than his fair share of charm.

Still, Lydia's words stung. He was unaccustomed to these —_ feelings _— pitiable things that only stood in his way on the path to greatness. But he'd thought Onmund would always be there, marching beside him on that path — or maybe slightly behind, to be honest.

"No," he said, "Onmund was a good friend to J'zargo. And this one hopes J'zargo was a good friend to Onmund as well."

"Really?" said Deirdre. "I'm pleased, and a bit surprised, to hear you speak this way."

"As am I," said Brelyna, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Afterward, all you could talk about was how he'd died a heroic death."

What could he say? That this was the only way he could make sense of his friend's death, or patch the hole Onmund's loss had left within him? Instead, he shook his head and gave another sniff, and told his own story.

"This one spent many hours consoling Onmund when his heart was aching and breaking for Deirdre. Silly, J'zargo thought, and told him so — to lose his head over one female when there are so many in the world. 'There are many fish in sea, no?' J'zargo told him. But it did no good. True, he had not J'zargo's charms or prowess with females" — and here he paused, waiting for acknowledgement from Brelyna, receiving a cuff about the ears instead.

"This one took him to The Frozen Hearth in Winterhold, but he would only stare into his mug of ale and pay no attention to the Nord lasses nearby. Even tales of J'zargo's many exploits with females, and the little tips this one gave him, they did no good. But still, we became good friends, as boring as it was for J'zargo to put up with such sentimentality."

"Now _that's_ the J'zargo we all know and, well, tolerate anyway," said Deirdre.

"Indeed," said Brelyna. "With such advice, it's a wonder Onmund didn't throw himself into the Sea of Ghosts."

At that, Lydia stood up from the table. Except for the reprimand, she'd been quiet since the first mention of the retreat from Whiterun. "Come, my Queen, Falk and Elisif could use our help."

Deirdre rose as well. "They can. And I may be Queen, but I must go where my love bids me."

She grasped Lydia's hand and J'zargo gave a little purr. "Lydia, that is impressive new armor you're wearing," he said. "Only, this one wonders, are there no smiths in Skyrim who can make armor more fitting to your attractive woman's form?"

"Oh, aye," said Lydia, "loads of them. Many are the male smiths who've told me, 'I'll make armor for you, lass. The breastplate will really knock 'em dead, if you know what I mean.' And many are the smiths lucky to come away with all their fingers working properly. No, J'zargo, I'd be the one who ended up dead if I wore the kind of armor you're thinking of."

J'zargo grinned, letting his eyes run up and down her body. "This one can see you in such armor now. Riskier, yes, but more enticing, no?"

Lydia's eyes narrowed to slits, and her voice was acid with sarcasm. "Oh, of course! It's what I live for, to make myself enticing to every lascivious Khajiit who comes along."

With that, Lydia and Deirdre left the building and J'zargo tipped back in his chair with a satisfied purr, his reputation restored. He hardly noticed when Brelyna gave him another cuff about the ears.


	5. Chapter 5 - The Jurard Family

**# # The Jurard Family # #**

Deirdre Morningsong had seen much in her short life that would turn even the strongest stomach. From the cruelty of men, beginning with those who had burned her parents alive in their own home, to the cruelty of mer, in whose torture chambers she and Lydia had once been guests, to the cruelty of Alduin and his dragon minions, and even the cruelty wrought by her own hand, it seemed she had witnessed every variety of horror imaginable.

Yet little could equal the scene now before her in the cellars of the Four Shields Tavern, which had been converted into a makeshift morgue. The smell of the fresh-sawn planks mingled with the tang of stored onions, the malty aroma of beer, and the coppery odor of blood — a nauseating mélange. And there was something else in the air, but Deirdre couldn't quite place it.

Four bodies lay on elevated planks brought from the nearby mill, the sheets that had covered three of them pulled back for examination. Even as her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she could see the work of this murderer was remarkably vile.

The bodies were those of Amaund and Cairine Jurard and their two children. The boy looked to have been in his first growth spurt, and the girl younger, maybe nine, though it was hard to tell, as she was still covered with a sheet. Falk and Elisif stood nearby, facing away from the bodies, his hand on her shoulder as she buried her face in her hands. At Deirdre's approach, she looked up.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, dabbing at her eyes with a silk kerchief. "I am not used to such scenes." She looked once more at the bodies, shuddering. "Such a happy family, such promise in the children, all ended, and for what?"

"No need to apologize, Jarl Elisif," said Deirdre. "I only wish I were not so accustomed to it myself. Yet for all the death I have seen, I still cannot answer the question of what purpose any of it served."

Elisif shook her head and looked away, as if the bins of potatoes and onions lining the walls held an answer. "Nor do I know why we came here, if only to learn what the guards already told us, that these poor people were savagely butchered, with the great claw marks you can plainly see. Please, learn what you can, then put the sheets back over them and let them lie in peace."

Deirdre looked to Falk. "It's as Jarl Elisif said. We've learned little more than the guards told us. They plainly died of the wounds made by the claws of a beast — or beast-man. Claw marks that match those of your friend. And we know that at least the woman fought back, judging by the bits of fur beneath her fingernails. But please, see what else you can learn."

Deirdre turned to the bodies, and Lydia followed. Up close, the gore was even worse. Amaund had huge rents across his chest and his clothing was soaked in blood. Worse, one arm was raked down to the bone, and one side of his face had been torn to strips.

"It seems pretty obvious what happened to him," said Lydia, always stoic. Her nonchalant view of the mayhem produced by battle had always surprised Deirdre. "He probably tried to fend off a blow with that arm, and then he could do nothing else to defend himself."

As awful as the wounds were, Deirdre made herself look over his whole body for anything amiss. "Look." She pointed at an empty dagger sheath on the man's belt. "Maybe he drew his knife and took a swing at his attacker."

"If so, little good it did him."

They turned to the woman, whose wounds were less extensive. One deep cut across her jugular had done for her, soaking the front of her dress in blood, now dried to a deep brown. Deirdre picked up one hand to find the tan hairs lodged beneath the fingernails.

"She hardly looks like a fighter, but she must have been brave," said Lydia.

"Or simply pushed to her last extremity, defending her children." With a sigh, Deirdre turned to the young ones.

The boy's wound was perhaps worst of all, a great rend in his clothing from shoulder to waist. "But look, Lydia, does that seem like much blood to you?"

"I don't know, it's hard to tell in this light."

"I'll take care of that." Deirdre cast a ball of magelight at the ceiling. Elisif groaned and turned away from the scene now revealed in even more grisly detail.

Lydia examined the wound more closely, lifting the torn tunic away. "It seems to have bled only right around the gash, and not much at that."

"Yet such a great wound would surely have gushed a great quantity of blood, soaking his clothing like the others."

Lydia nodded in agreement and they turned to the last body. But as stoic as Lydia was, even she gasped as Deirdre pulled back the sheet. "No, put it back, we've seen enough." She turned away, smashing one gauntleted fist into the other. "What kind of monster could have done this?"

Deirdre's hands trembled as she pulled the sheet up to the girl's neck, covering the awful wounds on her body. She gripped the edge of the table and spoke through clenched teeth. "Yet, like her brother, there was very little blood, would you agree?"

Lydia could only nod.

Deirdre looked down at the girl's face, wondering what depravity could lead to the abuse of such an innocent. Then something caught her eye. "Come, Lydia, look at her lips. Would you say they have a blue tinge to them?"

Lydia turned around slowly, giving Deirdre an exasperated look before bending to look at the girl's face. When she was done, she nodded and turned away once more.

"But what does it mean?" asked Falk.

"That blue pallor is the sign of a certain poison. And that smell, I thought I noticed it when we first came in." She bent closer to the girl's mouth and breathed in. "Yes. That's the odor of deathbell, or I'm no alchemist."

She checked the rest of the bodies. "Yes, they all have that odor, but only the children's lips are blue."

"Poison?" said Falk. "But why?"

"I hardly know. Perhaps we'll learn more at the Jurards' home."

* * *

_And they imagined themselves safe up here,_ Deirdre thought as she and her companions followed the narrow track uphill toward the Jurards' house. She well knew the reasons a Breton family might want space between themselves and the Nords who lived in the heart of the village. She'd lost her own parents to Nords' fears of anyone not of their own kind. Yet they were so far from town none must have heard their screams.

"Was the home looted?" she asked the guard who was showing them the way. He'd been among the first to enter the house, and Deirdre hoped his knowledge of the crime scene would prove valuable.

"Not that we could tell, your Grace. A chest with a small amount of gold remained, the silverware seemed all in its place, even two fine silver candlesticks, as plain as day on the mantel. It was the same with the trader, Heimvar, his goods seemed all in place, and a good amount of gold in a chest beneath his seat to boot."

"How were they discovered?"

"The Lylvieves, who live on the main road through town, grew worried yesterday afternoon when they hadn't yet seen any of the Jurards. Michel walked up and discovered them. She fainted, but when she recovered herself, she ran down the hill and raised the alarm. Nearly swooned myself, when I saw what was done to that poor family."

They reached the house and the guard pointed out the single paw print in a muddy spot next to the door. Deirdre knew nothing of Khajiits' feet, since all she had met wore boots. "And you're sure that's a Khajiit track?"

Falk nodded. "Aye, I have some experience with them. They're larger than the bobcats and lynxes we find hereabouts, but smaller than the sabre cat. There's nothing else like it native to Skyrim. If it comes to it, I'll have your friend brought up and we'll match prints."

Deirdre sighed, wondering how far she had to put up with this protocol that demanded a full investigation of her friend, who was plainly innocent.

Inside, the house was hardly as Deirdre expected it. At first glance, it seemed to be a normal, orderly home, save for two chairs knocked over near the table at the center of the room. Then she noticed the blood, which by now had soaked into the floorboards in black splotches. The first of these covered an area a few feet in diameter a couple of paces into the room. Another, smaller, was three paces farther in.

"Amaund was lying here when we found him," said the guard, pointing at the stain nearest the door. "And here was Cairine, not far away. The children we found by the table. It seemed obvious they were interrupted in the middle of their breakfast."

Indeed, four bowls half-full of porridge and four mugs remained in their places at the table, along with a pitcher and half a loaf of bread.

"And here," the guard said, pointing to the space between where Amaund and Cairine had fallen. "The tufts of cat hair. We only took a few down to the jail for evidence, but left these."

Deirdre could see that they were the same as the ones Falk had already showed them. As she examined them, Lydia walked around the scene. "If my hunch is right, Amaund either came to open the door, or confronted the attacker as soon as he entered."

"Probably that last," said the guard. "It's not likely they'd open the door for a strange Khajiit. But way up here, in the daytime, there was little reason to keep the door barred. The killer could have just walked in."

"Then Amaund confronted him here. While they struggled, Cairine came from behind and tried to pull the Khajiit away."

"Thus the tufts of cat hair beneath her nails," said Falk.

Deirdre examined the scene, looking for anything else. "Look!" She went over to the wall near the door and picked up a dagger. "Amaund's knife. But it's clean, it never struck home."

"The killer was too fast for him, not to mention more powerful," said Lydia. "But then what of the children?"

Deirdre went to the places where the children had fallen. "It's as I suspected. Not much blood, even considering their smaller bodies."

"What does that mean?" asked Elisif.

Deirdre gripped the back of one of the chairs, leaning on it for support. She didn't want to give voice to the one obvious conclusion. Maybe she was wrong, although the alternative was just as grim. As she hesitated, she looked down at the half-eaten bowls of porridge. She picked one up and smelled it. Definitely a whiff of deathbell about it. She tried the other three, and found them the same. But there was only one way to know for sure.

"Deirdre, no!" Elisif rushed over to her as she dipped a finger in one of the bowls.

She stopped, her hand halfway to her mouth, but before she could explain, Lydia broke in. "Don't let her scare you. She loves to shock her friends who think she's going to kill herself with such risk-taking." Deirdre was all too familiar with the wan smile of resignation Lydia now gave her.

"She's right. During my time in Arcadia's alchemy shop, I built up quite a tolerance. Deathbell, in small amounts, is used in many useful potions, not only deadly poisons. This little taste won't harm me." She put her finger in her mouth. The porridge needed salt. And yes, there was the distinctive tingling sensation of deathbell.

"But how could the killer have gotten the poison into the porridge?" Falk asked.

Lydia pointed to an open window near the hearth. "It was warm that morning, and Cairine probably had the window open as she was cooking the porridge. The killer could have snuck in while her back was turned, or while she was drawing water at the well and the rest of the family were sleeping."

Deirdre considered the steps necessary to poison the family's breakfast. "It does seem a risky maneuver, if the killer was planning to attack them anyway." She looked back down at the spots where the two children had died. "I hardly know which is worse, to imagine the children were conscious as this beast attacked them, or to think, as seems most likely, that they had succumbed to the poison by the time the killer turned on them."

"Why do you say that's likely?" asked Elisif.

"It's simple," Falk explained, "it has to do with the heart. If the heart is beating, wounds such as the ones made on the children would gush and even spurt blood."

"But once the heart stops with death," said Deirdre, "the blood would only ooze or leak out, and perhaps hardly at all, depending on how long the body had lain there."

"But how could you know of such things?" Elisif pressed.

Lydia put in, "Such things as the victors in battle do to the bodies of the losing side, you probably don't want to know, m'lady. The pooling of blood in the body is well known from such events."

"My guess is that the children's bodies lay still for some time before the killer attacked them. Perhaps he was catching his breath, or gathering himself for what he had to do. It's hard to imagine the monster who would rend the corpses of children in the way we saw. At least we can hope the poison had overcome their senses so they didn't have to witness their parents' murder or feel any pain."

"But if the whole family was poisoned, why not let the potion do its work?" Elisif asked. "Why attack when the parents could still defend themselves?"

"Perhaps the potion was meant to incapacitate the victims. Not kill them outright, but merely to give the killer an advantage. But he couldn't calibrate the doses for the different sizes of the adults and the children. Perhaps he hoped to attack them all while they were alive, which would have made it harder to guess that poison was involved."

"And that would explain why he went on to maul the bodies of the already deceased children," said Falk, "to make it look like a physical attack had killed them."

"Or they," said Deirdre. "It could be the work of two killers. I've never heard that Khajiits go in for poisoning."

Falk looked at her. "And we have two suspects in custody now. That certainly fits your theory."

Deirdre glared back at him, controlling her growing impatience. "How long must we keep up this charade that there's even a chance my friends are the killers? Brelyna a poisoner? J'zargo a bloodthirsty killer? If either of those turn out to be true, I will abdicate my throne."

The room was silent as Deirdre and Falk eyed each other.

Elisif broke the silence at last. "It seems we're not much closer to finding the killer."

"Yet we know much more about who we're looking for. We came here expecting to find that these were acts of blind mayhem. Yet now we know they took planning."

"And it does give us another track for our investigation," said Falk. "I'll have every alchemist and apothecary in the hold questioned about sales of that ingredient you mentioned, deathbell."

"Yes, although an assassin using such a poison would probably pick their own."

Falk looked thoughtfully around the room. "I still can't understand why the killer would go to the trouble of poisoning them, only to then take the risk of attacking them. Amaund's knife could easily have wounded or killed the killer."

"Whoever it is, one killer or more than one, they are striving to make the crimes as gruesome as possible. Maximizing the mayhem, attacking both Nords and Bretons without rhyme or reason. It seems they want to strike as much terror into the hearts of the people as possible."

And making very sure we know that a Khajiit is behind it, but she kept that thought to herself.


	6. Chapter 6 - Making Plans

**# # Making Plans # #**

"Even for Skyrim, Solitude is gloomy place, no?" J'zargo pulled the wool blanket tighter around his shoulders. He was seated with his three friends around a large table in what had once been General Tullius's war-room. "And this Castle Dour. Even today, when the sun is out, the chill is deep in this one's bones. How it can be even colder here than in Winterhold, J'zargo knows not." He looked longingly at the great fireplace at one end of the chamber, empty and unlit in what passed for summer in Skyrim.

Deirdre couldn't help but agree, at least as far as the gloom of the castle went. The place had certainly dampened her own mood these past months, and even now she could feel the dark, low ceiling pressing in on her. Yesterday's journey to Dragon Bridge had hardly been a relief. She asked one of the servants attending them to bring a pot of juniper tea.

"Just be glad you're not still stuck in the Dragon Bridge jail," said Lydia. "You'd have more to worry about than a dreary castle or catching a chill."

"And for that, J'zargo thanks Lydia Ravenwood. This one heard what she said to the Nord mob. Skyrim's people listen to the Hero of Whiterun." J'zargo looked around at his three friends, all with their mouths open. "What? Did J'zargo say something wrong?"

"No, it's just…" Lydia stammered, "well… you're welcome."

Deirdre knew how much J'zargo owed Lydia for his safety. Even after the captain of the guard had returned from Rorikstead, confirming the prisoners' alibi, the crowd had remained restive. And it wasn't just Nords, but the Breton and Redguard residents of the town, all united in their fear of the Khajiits. Only Lydia's protective hand on J'zargo's shoulder, and Deirdre standing next to Brelyna, had kept the mob from falling on their friends. Falk and Elisif had calmed them further by promising more guards for the town and increased efforts at tracking down the killer, or killers. Deirdre, too, had promised to add several of her own guard for Dragon Bridge's security. With those assurances, the mob had allowed them to leave town with a minimum of grumbling.

In the two days since, Brelyna and J'zargo had settled into their new quarters in Castle Dour, separate but adjacent rooms, at Brelyna's insistence. "I'm not quite prepared for cohabitation, or shacking up, as J'zargo puts it," she'd told Deirdre. A tour of Solitude and a visit to the Blue Palace had taken much of the rest of the first day.

Now it was morning, and they were discussing possible duties for Deirdre's court mages. Deirdre had already listed several possibilities, including helping Elisif with some trouble in Wolf Skull Cave and the training of battlemages and spellswords for Skyrim's defense. "Who better than you two, who gained such experience of the Thalmor battlemages' tactics at Whiterun?" Now it was Brelyna's turn to shiver, but both agreed to the plan.

Then she turned to the real reason she'd brought them here, or at least half of it. "It's also your political acumen I need, especially yours, Brelyna. You must have absorbed something of the ways of court and politics, growing up in House Telvanni."

"It's true, our house had to make every effort to maintain relations with House Redoran and House Hlaalu. I often overheard my parents talking about dealing with our rivals, and even attended formal dinners where Morrowind politics were discussed."

"Excellent. You can help me maintain the support of the jarls. I've grown concerned since Jarl Balgruuf stepped down. He's made his brother regent until his eldest son comes of age."

"Yes, we heard that news when we passed through Whiterun. Why did he do it?"

"He was never the same after the siege," Lydia said. "He resumed his jarlship just long enough to ensure that Ulfric would never become High King. But now he's decided he doesn't have the stomach for the politics or the threat of another war with the Altmer. It's a sad end of a great career."

The tea arrived, and J'zargo gave a grateful purr.

"And while I could count on Balgruuf's support, I can't say the same for his brother, Hrongar. He's never trusted me since he saw me marching with Ulfric. He's shown himself to be quite hot-headed in ruling Whiterun. He may prove difficult to deal with."

"And you are wondering how to win him over to your side?"

"Exactly. While also encouraging him to treat his people better. It is a touchy matter."

"I'll put my mind to it."

Good. With affairs in Skyrim more settled, she'd be able to pursue her other plans, maybe even get out of this dreary castle for a while.

"And then there are relations with our neighboring provinces. No matter how ready we are for an Aldmeri attack, I doubt it will be enough. What we need are allies from across Tamriel, and this is where the two of you can be especially helpful."

Her two friends looked at each other, then blankly back at her.

"You both have valuable contacts in your homelands, for instance."

"Yes, certainly," said Brelyna. "But Morrowind is still struggling to rebuild after the devastation of the Red Year. I'm not sure what help my people could offer. And especially my own house, Telvanni. Our homelands in Sadrith Mora, Tel Vos, and Tel Mora, all lie under a blanket of volcanic ash. House Redoran is now the power in Morrowind."

"It may be that your land has little to offer in the way of defense, but cutting off trade with Summerset would be a great help, should hostilities break out." She took a long sip of her tea. "But it's also your own knowledge of diplomatic protocol I was hoping to draw upon."

"I'll be glad to help in any way I can."

Deirdre turned to J'zargo, who shook his head. "Elsweyr is loyal to Summerset, ever since High Elves restored our two moons to us. J'zargo is a great mage, but he is no magician when it comes to persuading the Mane to turn on our saviors."

"Yet the Altmer will turn on you once they have eradicated or enslaved humans. Surely your Mane can see that. They will not rest until they have all peoples under their heel."

"Perhaps you'd do better to concentrate on those lands more capable of help and less predisposed in favor of Summerset," said Brelyna. "Hammerfell would be the obvious choice."

"Exactly what I've been thinking. And next, High Rock."

"But High Rock is a loyal province of the Empire."

"They have been, true. But now they are isolated, connected to Cyrodiil only by sea. And they must see the strength of the Empire waning as that of the Aldmeri Dominion grows. Surely an alliance of Skyrim, Hammerfell, and High Rock offers the sturdiest bulwark against any elven designs on their province. And the recent events in The Reach may put us in good stead there as well."

Lydia cleared her throat. Deirdre knew she hadn't entirely approved of her dealings with that hold. Especially not her decision to remain neutral when "Mad King" Madanach's forces were advancing on the hold capital of Markarth. But Madanach had once been a benevolent ruler of both Nords and Bretons in The Reach, and now promised to root out the corruption of the Silver-Blood family, which Jarl Igmund had allowed to fester. He had also promised to abandon the foul alliance with the evil hagravens and all the other old ways, and to bend the knee as a jarl, not a king.

"That was risky," said Brelyna. "Madanach may be a Breton, but the barbarous actions of his Forsworn raiders earned them a notorious reputation across Skyrim. Not only Nords, but many Bretons must hold that against him and all his followers."

"That's exactly what I tried to tell her," Lydia put in. "And sure enough, the people are grumbling about it, not just Nords, but some Bretons too."

This had been their one significant argument since their marriage. "Why do you ask me for advice if you're not going to take it?" was one of the remarks Deirdre remembered most clearly. That argument had given her the idea that she needed more advisers. Relying on Lydia for security, love, and also political advice seemed too great a burden to place on one person.

"I hope the gain in goodwill with High Rock compensates for the loss of standing among your own people," Brelyna said. "Political goodwill is nothing to squander."

At Deirdre's blank look, she went on. "It's a simple concept, really. Every time you do something the people approve of, you build up your political goodwill. Think of it like putting gold in a coffer. Then when you are forced to take an action the people disapprove, it's like drawing from that treasure. A wise ruler always keeps an eye on the balance, unless she wants to become a despot."

Deirdre beamed. This was exactly the sort of advice she'd hoped to gain when she sent for her two friends. "I see my commission will be in good hands when I name you my emissary to our neighboring provinces. And J'zargo, of course you will travel with Brelyna."

They both looked at her in surprise. "But we just got here," Brelyna protested.

"Oh, not right away, but perhaps in the fall. We can't afford to wait too long. But listen, you know what a grim place I find this Solitude. I also thought…"

Before she could finish, a messenger rushed into the room. "Another murder!" he said, panting. "In Morthal this time. And they've got the killer!"


	7. Chapter 7 - Murder in Morthal

**# # Murder in Morthal # #**

J'zargo stared down at the dead Khajiit, whose body had been tossed into a disused cellar beneath Morthal's Highmoon Hall. He was large, probably a head taller than J'zargo. His fur did seem to match the tufts Falk had shown them, tawnier than J'zargo's own. His feet were black with mud from the swamps, and the claws of his hands were caked with dark, dried blood. He wore only a dirty pair of trousers, more holes than cloth.

_In the name of the Sugar God, what were you doing here, my friend?_ J'zargo still couldn't believe a fellow Khajiit could be capable of such random, unprovoked killings. And then the Nords dumped him down here.

"Nords treat Khajiit like a sack of potatoes," he growled. Just one more humiliation among too many to count these last days.

They'd dashed out of Castle Dour immediately on receiving the news of this third attack. It was too bad. They were on the brink of hearing the rest of Deirdre's plans for him and for Brelyna. Sending them on these diplomatic missions? It made little sense, even when he considered Brelyna's experience with politics. He was glad for her to receive such recognition from the queen. But what was his role? There must be more Deirdre wasn't telling them.

But the queen had been in a rush. Having now crossed into a second hold, the murder spree clearly fell under the High Queen's jurisdiction. Deirdre had barely taken the time to throw on her arch-mage's robes, much less wait for a complement of guards to accompany them. J'zargo was surprised when Lydia hadn't protested too much, she had shown herself so obsessed with security. But the whole retinue would only slow them down.

For himself, J'zargo was eager to get to the bottom of these killings. They reflected poorly on Khajiits, and therefore on J'zargo. Maybe if he showed how helpful a Khajiit could be in such matters, Khajiits' reputation would improve. Or at least get back to normal, the Nords treating the great J'zargo only with mild disdain, not outright hostility. And maybe he would rise in Brelyna's estimation as well.

They'd reached Morthal late in the day, receiving a perfunctory greeting from Jarl Idgrod upon entering Highmoon Hall. "You're lucky we haven't burned the body by now, after what that animal did to poor Samil." J'zargo had given a growl at this statement, but Brelyna had restrained him. He'd already received many hostile looks on the road here, and even some flying fruit; at least the jarl was comparatively neutral, greeting him with the same lack of interest she showed the rest of the party.

"I'm surprised you came at all," she went on, addressing Deirdre. "Our people managed what yours could not, and now the whole affair is over. And lucky for you, too. The people were starting to grumble about what good a high queen is, if she can't protect them from such lawlessness."

"And I am surprised that one of your imminent foresight didn't predict our coming, or even the murders themselves."

J'zargo smiled. Jarl Idgrod was known for spending more time seeking out visions than helping her people. He looked eagerly from one to the other, hoping for more verbal jousting. But Brelyna, standing nearest to Deirdre, cleared her throat loudly before she could go on, putting an end to that line of talk.

The jarl turned them over to her housecarl, claiming she had other business to attend to — staring off into the distance hoping for a vision, J'zargo assumed. Now the four of them were gathered around the murderer's body, with Gorm, the housecarl, standing to one side.

"Here," Deirdre said. "Let's at least lay him out properly." Between the two of them, they got him stretched out on his back with his hands crossed over his chest, but not before J'zargo noticed a gaping hole in his back.

Lydia noticed it too. "That's a nasty puncture wound."

"Aye," said Gorm, "a pickaxe will do that."

"How did it come about?" said Deirdre. "Tell us everything. And remember, even the smallest detail could be important."

"Well, your Grace, I'll tell you what I know, but you'd do better to talk to Jori and the others who were there, or the hold guards who brought the bodies back. I got it all second-hand from them."

"And where will I find this Jori?"

"In the Moorside Inn, getting drunk no doubt, after what he and his friends saw today."

"Then we'll talk to him and the others in the morning. Tell us what you know."

"Well, it was like this. Samil was out in the swamps this morning, working on a dike that had got a hole in it. Big drainage project up that way. He was off by himself, out of sight of the other men. They heard yellin' and screamin' and came running and saw this Khajiit tearing into Samil something awful. He was fighting back with his shovel, but Samil was no brawler, and he was already bleeding pretty bad. The men, four of them there were, set on the Khajiit with their own tools, but he fought back like a caged animal."

"Yet Khajiit's death wound came from behind," J'zargo said. "Just like Nords, to hit him in the back while he ran away."

"No, begging your pardon Master J'zargo, they had him surrounded. They thought to bring him to justice, not kill him outright. Y'see, we may not get many Khajiits around here, but we know you are people, cat-like though you appear. And so the boys thought to arrest him, not put him down like a wild beast. They had him surrounded, thought he'd give in, but he didn't say a word when they told him to surrender, just made this strange groaning sound. He went after two of the lads, and had 'em both backed up against a hawthorn bush. We'd like to've had two more dead, but for Jori putting his pick in the fellow's back. And now at least the terror is over, though Samil had to die for it."

Yes, the terror is over, J'zargo thought. Yet when he looked to his friends, it seemed they still weren't convinced. Each was looking pensively at the Khajiit's body.

"What?" Gorm asked. "We ought at least celebrate the end of these murders, oughtn't we?"

"If only it were that simple," Deirdre said. She explained the evidence of poisoning. "So we suspect at least one other accomplice, and the murders might not be over. Did the men see no one else at the scene?"

"No! I mean, I didn't think to ask, but I'm sure they'd a told me if they had."

"And did the murderer have any gear with him? A pack with potions, or alchemy supplies perhaps?"

"No, he was just as you see him, no shirt, no shoes, just those ragged trousers."

Now J'zargo realized that was the strangest thing about his dead countryman. "What was Khajiit doing, running around cold Skyrim wearing only pants? That's what J'zargo wants to know."

"A good question," said Deirdre. "At the very least, if he was acting alone, he must have had more clothing or other gear with him, maybe stored nearby. Did the guards search the vicinity for any possessions he might have left behind?"

"You'll have to ask the guards. I believe the situation seemed obvious, and they didn't think to look into it further."

Lydia rolled her eyes. "A lone Khajiit in the swamps, far from anywhere, and without any supplies, clothing, even a small backpack? They didn't stop to wonder how he got there, or if he maybe had a camp nearby? I'd have some words with them if they were under my command."

J'zargo felt sorry for the man, who now looked abashed at this chiding from one of such renown.

"No, I suspect they could do with some more training, but Hjaalmarch is a small hold, not like Whiterun or Haafingar, and things like this don't happen so often. I guess they were just preoccupied with getting Samil's body back home to his family, and one of the other lads had a nasty wound that needed tending."

Lydia looked hopeful for a moment. "How did they bring the bodies back? Surely they didn't carry them?"

"No, by wagon. See, the quickest way to the work site on foot is to go straight north and then a bit east across the swamps. But if they had a load of tools or rock for the dikes, they'd have to go around by way of the roads, south out of town to strike the main road, then east and northeast. That's the way the guards took the wagon once Jori came running back here to raise the alarm."

Deirdre and Lydia looked at each other. "And I trust no Khajiits have been seen traveling that road?" Deirdre asked.

"Only the usual caravan, but it came past last week, headed east. But as I said, the road passes south of town, and we don't see everyone on it."

"How about other travelers?"

"Oh, the usual, Nords mostly, Bretons, Redguards. Not many Imperials of late, of course. Wagons and horseback mostly, not many travelers afoot in these parts, unless they're local."

"So if the Khajiit was acting alone, it's unlikely he would have taken the risk of passing by on the main road. He could have come directly across the swamps from Dragon Bridge. And in that case, he must have had a camp somewhere nearby. But if more than one person is involved, then a wagon could have passed by town unnoticed. Perhaps the Khajiit was hidden somehow, to avoid suspicion. They could have stopped not too far from the worksite, without the workers noticing."

"Aye, it's possible."

"We'll need to do a thorough search of the area, in case the attacker did have a camp, or maybe we can spot some wagon tracks. And that will have to wait for the morrow. Will Idgrod put us up here, or should we go to the inn?"

Gorm glanced at J'zargo. "Probably safer all around if you stayed here. Will you be wanting four rooms, or three, or…?"

"One will be fine for the two of us," Deirdre said, placing a hand on Lydia's pauldroned shoulder. She nodded toward Brelyna and J'zargo.

"One will be fine for us as well," said Brelyna. "We wouldn't want to put you out." J'zargo gave a purr.

"Then I'll see to your rooms. Supper is at seven."

He turned to go, but then spun back around. "How could I forget? It was the strangest thing. Jori said that, right before the last life went out of the Khajiit, they thought they heard him whisper, 'Thank you.' I didn't know what to make of it."

J'zargo looked darkly at his companions, but said nothing. One particularly vile explanation for the Khajiit's strange behavior crossed his mind. Deirdre seemed to share it, her look was so grim.

One thing was certain: Skyrim would not be getting back to normal any time soon.


	8. Chapter 8 - A Chance Encounter

**# # A Chance Encounter # #**

Rodrik threw down his hammer in disgust. Blast the damned roads, and blast the jarl for not keeping them in good repair! He'd hit a pothole the size of the crater in Red Mountain. Now the wagon's front wheel was broken, the metal rim bent out of shape, and a big chunk of the wooden wheel itself was missing. He'd been trying to bang the metal hoop back into something resembling a circle, but it was no use. This summer rain wasn't helping either, dripping down into his eyes every time he bent over the wheel.

Beitild, the boss back at the Iron-Breaker Mine, would be mad as Oblivion when she found out he hadn't gotten his load of tools and beams up to the new mine by the end of the day. It was already late, and he would never make it before dark. Work would come to a stop, and how Beitild hated that.

He had just decided to unhitch the horse and ride back to town when he heard another wagon approaching — but from the wrong direction if he was hoping for a ride. The wagon came into view around the corner, driven by a Breton from all appearances. The driver pulled alongside.

"Anything I can do to help?" the man said, eying the broken wheel doubtfully. He wore a long coat over a plain shirt and trousers. A pair of good leather boots that hadn't seen too much wear was the only distinguishing feature about him.

"Only if you happen to have a spare wheel with you." Rodrik knew this was a dim hope even before he looked in the back of the stranger's wagon. Nothing but a couple of long, rectangular crates. They looked for all the world like coffins, save for the small holes in the sides. "Or, if you're willing to turn around and take me back to Dawnstar."

"No such luck on either count, I'm afraid," the stranger said. "I used my spare back in High Rock and haven't been able to get another yet. And my schedule demands that I keep moving east." He gave an apologetic smile. "Sorry."

"Not to worry," said Rodrik. "I can ride old Bossie here." The stranger flicked the reins and then Rodrik remembered something. "Be careful down the road a ways, past Fort Dunstad. The Khajiit caravan is camped there. You've probably heard about the murders in Dragon Bridge and Morthal, if you came that way. Say they got the culprit, but you can't be too careful."

"I thank you for the warning," the Breton said with a wave over his shoulder.

Rodrik turned to the business of getting Bossie unhitched. She was well-named — had a head of her own and didn't like to be ridden.

He was tying up the reins to a more appropriate length for riding, Bossie shaking her head and stamping even more than usual, when he heard soft, quick footsteps from behind him, along with a low, groaning sound. He turned to see a flash of tawny fur, a clawed hand swinging toward him, and that was the last he knew.


	9. Chapter 9 - Rebellion Among the Jarls

**# # Rebellion Among the Jarls # #**

Brelyna gasped and clutched at J'zargo as the dragon landed on a muddy bank a few yards away, right in front of Deirdre and Lydia. She could only wish to possess some of their calm in the face of such a terrifying beast, but her experience with dragons was limited. Somehow she'd gone through the months of the dragon resurrection only glimpsing them from afar. True, she'd gotten close to Odahviing when that dragon was chained up in Dragonsreach, but an unfettered dragon was a far different thing.

As with the travelers, so with their horses. The two belonging to Deirdre and Lydia stood calmly, while hers and J'zargo's snorted and tugged at their reins.

J'zargo patted her hand. "Not to worry, Brelyna. Dragons are just really big cats, no?"

This brought her to her senses, and not just because the Khajiit view of the world was so different from her own. If the beast before them was just a large cat, then she was Azura and Mephala rolled into one. But no, she would not let J'zargo patronize her with his chivalry. Was this any way for a college-trained mage, much less a member of House Telvanni, to behave? She let go of J'zargo's arm and stood up straighter, moving a little apart from him, as if eager to get a better view of the meeting.

The dragon looked for all the world as if it was bowing to Deirdre, its wings swept back and its chin nearly brushing the dark, muddy bank.

_"Drem yol lok, Dovahkiin. Zu'u los Viinturuth. Zu'u qiilaan us hin suleyk."_

_"Drem yol lok, Viinturuth. Zu'u ofaal hin mir."_

The party had been traveling across the marshlands, taking a shortcut Lydia and Deirdre knew between Morthal and Dawnstar, when Lydia had spotted dragon wings in the distance. Up to that point the party had been remarkably somber, the news of another murder having confirmed their worst fears. Yet it seemed to Brelyna that Deirdre and Lydia were even more subdued than the news warranted.

They'd had little luck investigating the murder scene in the swamps. The killer had left plenty of footprints, but they came out of a large bog. Though the four companions scoured the bank on the opposite side, they could find no matching prints there, just a confusing array of boot prints. It was as if the killer had been dropped from the sky. Other than that, the scene bore all the markings of the previous murder sites. Then a summer squall had moved south from the Sea of Ghosts, cutting their investigation short.

That was yesterday, and they had spent this morning searching for any sign of a camp or other traces of someone traveling across the swamps, Deirdre growing increasingly dejected. They had returned to Morthal at mid-day, only to hear the news of a new murder in Dawnstar, and dashed off immediately, their moods hardly lifted by the clearing skies.

But once Lydia spotted the dragon, Deirdre's eyes lit up like it was the morning of St. Jiub's Festival. Stepping apart from them, she'd shouted a single word, _Fahdon,_ her Voice booming across the marshes. The dragon spun on a septim and flew toward them.

"That felt good," Deirdre said as they awaited the dragon's approach, shaking out her arms as if preparing to shout again. "How long has it been since I used my Voice?" She seemed giddy as a schoolgirl.

Now Deirdre and Viinturuth were talking. Brelyna didn't know Dovah, but she caught the name _Paarthurna_x and the words _drem, vaat,_ and _jul._ She gathered that Deirdre wanted to know whether the dragons still supported the bargain she'd struck with Paarthurnax, the ancient dragon who'd originally taught Nords the Power of the Voice. The pact held that dragons would avoid all human settlements and hunt only the beasts of the woods and meadows, as long as Skyrim's people left them alone. And it seemed the dragons remained true to Paarthurnax's word; in the months since Alduin's defeat, they had become almost as mythical as before the resurrection, spotted only occasionally as a pair of wings on the horizon.

When the conference came to an end, however, and the great dragon had winged once more into the sky, Brelyna could see from the grin on Deirdre's face that the news was much better.

"We have our first allies," she said, beaming at her friends. "Not only is our agreement holding, but three or four dragons, including Viinturuth here, have vowed to come to my aid in battle, should the need arise. I have only to shout their names."

Lydia wrapped Deirdre in a bear hug. "That's wonderful, my Queen. Of course they owe you their loyalty, as you bested their leader."

"This one congratulates you," J'zargo said as Deirdre unwrapped herself from Lydia's embrace.

"Yes, excellently done," said Brelyna, placing a hand on Deirdre's shoulder.

Deirdre basked in these congratulations for a moment then turned her face to the sky, whooping with joy. She turned in the direction they were heading, gathered her breath, and shouted, "_Wuld-Nah-Kest!_" She shot away from them in a blur, crossing a bog to the bank opposite in only an instant. Turning back to them, she called, "Come, what are you waiting for?"

Lydia rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

Brelyna was glad as well. Since the day they'd sat down to the meal in Dragon Bridge's jail, she'd been concerned for her two friends. Both were showing the strains of their new responsibilities, but especially Deirdre. Between the everyday challenges of rule, the assassination attempts, the threat of an Aldmeri attack, and now these murders, her friend had lost much sleep and added many care lines. And, judging by a few sharp comments and sarcastic asides over the last few days, Deirdre's relationship with her wife seemed to be suffering as well. Constant vigilance couldn't be good for one's love life. What the two probably needed was a vacation from all these threats and cares. As that was unlikely to happen, Brelyna was glad they had found these few moments of frivolity. Lydia was still smiling as they gathered the horses and made their more laborious way around the bog.

* * *

The party's lighter mood was short-lived. The reality of the murders, now seven in total, reasserted itself as they approached Dawnstar. Worse, with evidence that the murderer in this last case was also a Khajiit, talk was spreading that Elsweyr was behind a conspiracy against the people of Skyrim. They had heard it in Morthal just hours before, returning from their unsuccessful foray into the swamps. Even Jarl Idgrod, who was usually more concerned about her own visions and maintaining magical balance than with affairs such as these, had succumbed to the pervading fear. "Probably ought to round them all up, if only for their own safety," she said, not deigning to look at J'zargo.

And now, as Dawnstar came into view, Brelyna saw that the situation here was even worse than in Morthal. A large crowd had gathered outside the White Hall, Jarl Skald's seat, some of the men armed with pickaxes and other tools, all of them shouting at once. "Skyrim is for the Nords" was the most common shout, but she also heard, "Kick the foreigners out!" and "Lock them up!" At least they weren't chanting "Off with their heads," though it wouldn't have surprised her. Next to her, J'zargo gave a low growl.

Deirdre, riding in front with Lydia, twisted around in her saddle. "Keep calm and let Lydia and me do the talking." Lydia faced forward, silent, scanning the crowd for any more tangible threats that might arise.

They couldn't even drop off their horses at the stable without incident. The ostler watched them balefully as they dismounted, not seeming to recognize anyone in the party. True, Deirdre had left her crown back in Solitude, but Brelyna was surprised the fellow didn't recognize Lydia from her stature and appearance alone, not to mention the insignia on the sash she wore over her armor.

"I'll take care o' you three's horses, but I'll not handle the mount of any damned Khajiit, not after what they did to poor Rodrik."

Lydia dropped the reins of her horse and stepped up to him, one hand on her axe. "Here stands your queen, and these are all horses from her stables. You'll kneel before her first of all, and then you'll care for all four horses as if they were your own, and be glad about it."

Now the fellow seemed to recognize to whom he was speaking. Brelyna almost felt sorry for him. "Oh! Beggin' your pardon, ma'am, I mean captain, no I mean your ladyship, I didn't recognize you, nor her majesty." With a quick bow, he went to collect their horses, pausing only for a moment before taking the reins from J'zargo.

The crowd surrounding the entrance to the main hall would not be so easily cowed. A large man in guard's armor stood before the door, trying to calm the crowd. "The jarl is doing everything he can!" This was met only with grumbles of disagreement.

Already a few on the outer edges had spotted them. "Look, it's the Queen, and Lydia!" "But who's that with them?" "Damn foreigners. Does one of them have a tail?"

"We should have waited for your retinue, my Queen," Lydia said. "A dozen royal guards would quiet this crowd."

"But that would only have slowed us down, and we are already running behind events. At this rate, there'll be a dozen more murders before we track down the killers."

Seeing their approach, the man at the top of the stairs descended through the crowd to greet them. "My queen," he said, kneeling before her. "I am Jod, housecarl to Jarl Skald the Elder." Regaining his feet, he looked at J'zargo with a mixture of hope and suspicion. "Is this a suspect in Rodrik's murder? Do you bring him here for trial?"

"String him up!" someone yelled.

Deirdre stepped forward, putting herself between the bulk of the crowd and her companions. "No, my friend," she said as gently as she could, though Brelyna knew her well enough to hear the slight quaver in her voice as she fought to suppress her anger. "For anyone I suspected of such crimes would be bound or chained. This is J'zargo of Elsweyr, my friend and loyal adviser, and this is Brelyna Maryon…"

Before she could finish introducing Brelyna, a young Nord charged toward J'zargo. Unfortunately for him, he had to dodge around Lydia to get to his target. She stepped in front of him, stopping him in his tracks and lifting him off his feet by his collar. He struggled there for a moment, then Deirdre cast a calming spell on him. His body relaxed and a pleasant, dreamy expression came over his face.

Brelyna was glad she hadn't needed the spell she was readying to cast; the fellow probably wouldn't have enjoyed living the rest of his life as a dog. But these foolish Nords were beginning to get on her nerves. She took a deep breath, resolving to let Deirdre and Lydia handle the situation, and placed a calming hand on J'zargo's shoulder. She could tell by his low growl that he was losing patience as well, not that he had much to begin with.

Lydia dropped the Nord and raised her hands for calm. "People of Dawnstar. You know that I have always fought to defend this land."

"Hear, hear!" came a shout from the crowd.

"And you know that Queen Deirdre drove back the Imperial Army at Riften, then reclaimed Whiterun from the High Elves. To her we owe Skyrim's independence!"

"Long live Queen Deirdre!" came a few shouts, though they were none too hearty.

"And always, Brelyna and J'zargo fought alongside us. They foiled an Imperial plot in Riften that would have taken my own life. I owe them my thanks, as do you, though you seem not to know it. True Nords stand for justice and don't take out their fears on innocent people. Now stand aside and let us do what we can to solve these murders."

"You all heard Captain Ravenwood," said Jod. "Now make way." He gestured to Deirdre and her companions to follow him to the door of the hall.

The crowd parted for them, but not without considerable grumbling. "Why doesn't she just get on a dragon and fly around until she finds the killer?" "A few shouts from the Dragonborn and those Khajiits would stop covering up for their own kind, I reckon." "What good does the Voice do us if she can't keep us safe?"

Brelyna was surprised — though by now she shouldn't have been — to see J'zargo pump himself up and stride with lordly dignity through the parting mob. He caught up to Lydia and placed a hand on her shoulder, giving her a pointy-toothed grin. "This one never tires of hearing that speech, friend Lydia."

She glared back at him. "Oh? I'm getting damned tired of giving it."

Brelyna must have been standing and gaping at J'zargo, for Deirdre came over and put a protective arm around her shoulders. "Come, we shouldn't linger out here. It will be safer inside."

But not by much, Brelyna thought once they entered. Jarl Skald glared at them as they made the long approach to the throne where he slouched. Brelyna imagined his ire was directed at her and J'zargo especially, yet he didn't bother to rise, much less bend the knee to his queen. This system of the jarls choosing their ruler certainly didn't inspire much loyalty or obedience. The only comfort she took from the entire place was a female Breton mage standing to one side of the hall, watching them benevolently as they approached.

Deirdre had warned them that Skald was one of Ulfric Stormcloak's strongest supporters, and he had all the opinions about outlanders to go with it. Brelyna was only surprised he didn't have "Skyrim Is For The Nords!" tattooed across his forehead — although perhaps he did, as he wore a silver and moonstone circlet. "The Elder" was an apt appellation. Judging by the lines on his face and the gray stubble on his scalp, Skald had seen many winters.

It soon became clear that the jarl knew little about the most recent murder, but had plenty of opinions about what should happen to the Khajiits. "Round 'em all up, I say."

"And then what?" Deirdre demanded.

"Oblivion if I care. Shove them across the border and let Cyrodiil worry about them."

"Leaving aside the injustice of blaming an entire people for the actions of one or two, that would do little to improve relations with the Empire."

"The Empire! They're the ones who started all this business of bringing the different races of people together. Anyone can see that the gods intended us to live apart. Titus Mede can suck Malacath's flaccid cock, for all I care."

Brelyna gasped at this barbarism. These Nords who looked down on Daedra worship seemed not to know how dangerous it was to take a daedric prince's name in vain.

"Very nice," was all Deirdre said in response, but the acid tone in her voice cowed Skald somewhat.

"Or… or… put them on ships and send them back to Elsweyr."

"And who will pay for these ships? You? What of the provisions for that long voyage? And what will be their reception once they return there?"

"That's right, I forgot. The Khajiits send us only their criminals, their thieves and murderers, their rapists…"

"And their students of magic," J'zargo put in with a warning growl, but it was as if he hadn't spoken.

"And don't forget their skooma dealers. How many true-hearted Nords have become addicted to that foul concoction? I don't blame Elsweyr for not wanting them back, but I don't care how they're treated once they return. And when we're rid of the Khajiits…" — and here Brelyna did not like the way he glanced at her, then away — "well, that'll be a good start at making Skyrim the place it used to be."

"Oh? And what was that?"

He glared at the queen with a flat expression. Brelyna noticed Deirdre's hands balled into fists, and wondered if the jarl knew what he was getting into. "The home of the Nords, of course," the jarl said.

"So you wouldn't want to take Skyrim even farther back in time, to when it was the home of the Snow Elves, say."

"Pfaw!" was Skald's only response.

"And how about Bretons? Or half-Bretons like me? Are we welcome in your Skyrim?"

The jarl only gave her a smug smile. Brelyna had seen the same kind of smile before, aimed at her, one that ensured the recipient of their own complete insignificance, nigh on to nonexistence, in the eyes of the smiler.

The queen and the jarl eyed each other for another silent moment. Deirdre broke the silence first. "We could debate politics all day, but as your High Queen, I am telling you the Khajiits will be left alone. Only those who are legitimately suspected of these murders will be arrested."

Skald's smile broadened. "It's too late, l…" He caught himself before he could call her "lass," finishing with a sarcastic "your Grace" instead. "The orders have already gone out. I've exchanged letters with Jarl Hrongar in Whiterun. He might have been on the wrong side of the Civil War, but he's a much more sensible man than his fool of a brother, Balgruuf. Between our two holds, we control the routes of all the trading caravans. Soon all the Khajiit traders will be rounded up and put in camps outside Whiterun. There are stragglers in other towns, of course, but Falkreath, Winterhold, and Riften are all on board and will send along any cat-people remaining in their holds. I'd expected more help from Ulfric, but he seems less of a man, and less of a Nord, since you shouted him down. As for Elisif and Idgrod, one can never tell about either of them. If Elisif weren't such a weak jarl, maybe these murders would have been stopped before they even started. Then there's your puppet in The Reach. Nobody is happy with that, I must tell you."

Lydia and Deirdre exchanged a look. Brelyna notice it, as did the jarl, who seemed only to grow happier.

"So you see, we have five holds in favor of corralling the Khajiits. If it weren't for the debt Jarl Laila feels she owes you, we'd have already called the jarlmoot to pick a new High _King._"

A long, tense moment passed as the two eyed each other, Deirdre balling her fists by her sides, and the jarl lounging on his throne as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Finally he put on an expression of mock fright. "What will you do now, Shout me down? Of course I know that you could level the entire town if you wanted. But I'm betting you won't play the despot. You're too kind-hearted for it. Your woman's heart is too soft."

Seeing that Deirdre was too overcome with rage to speak, Brelyna stepped forward. "Perhaps Jarl Skald should avoid playing with fire. _Literal_ fire, mind you."

Again it was as if she hadn't spoken.

"It's all right, Brelyna. We'll learn nothing useful here, since the jarl has done nothing to investigate the actual crimes or to find the killer. It's clear he'd rather stoke the people's fears than truly protect them."

"Well, if there's nothing else to discuss, will you be on your way, or do you need accommodations? I'd be happy to provide beds and a meal for you. For the _two_ of you, I mean. I'll have no darkies or pussy-cats sleeping under my roof."

Brelyna's vision went red as she began to cast a spell at this miserable excuse of a person. Next to her, Deirdre was drawing in breath for a Shout. Behind her, J'zargo was also moving forward. Jod, who had been standing nearby looking uncomfortable through all this, stepped in front of Skald.

But then Lydia moved in front, turning to face Deirdre and her friends. She spoke in a soft, calm voice, putting her hands on Deirdre's shoulders. "My Queen, no. This will do no good." She looked at Brelyna and J'zargo in turn. "My friends, put away those spells. Fighting here will not solve the murders, and it will not hold Skyrim together."

Brelyna drew a deep breath and the red haze lifted from her vision. She looked over at Deirdre, who now seemed to find Lydia as if coming out of a fog. "Yes, Lydia, of course you are right. Let us leave."

The four companions turned to go. Brelyna noticed the Breton mage looking at them apologetically as they passed her.

"Thank you for stopping by," Skald called after them. "Be careful of the mob on your way out. They're so hard to control in times like these."

* * *

Deirdre was silent as they left Dawnstar behind them, her eyes fixed on the mane of her horse, her thoughts obviously far away. Brelyna had rarely seen her so upset. They let their horses walk along the road leading south, for they had no fixed destination at the moment. They had thought to spend the night in the town, but clearly that was impossible. Brelyna thought about suggesting a retreat to Morthal. Deirdre and Lydia might be accustomed to sleeping rough, but she was not; even Idgrod's cramped hall would be better than sleeping on the ground. Lydia had mentioned Fort Dunstad as they were retrieving their horses, but Brelyna had little idea how far that might be. At least they might expect a warmer welcome from Skyrim troops commanded by Deirdre's friend, Ralof. But the sun was sinking toward the horizon and the parting of the roads west and south was approaching. They'd have to decide soon. Yet each of her friends seemed sunk in their own thoughts.

A shout from behind disturbed their aimless progress.

"What now?" Lydia demanded, turning her horse, her free hand going to her axe.

Brelyna was glad to see it was only the court mage, whose name she did not know, jogging behind them and calling for them to wait. She stopped a few paces from them and paused to catch her breath.

"You're Madena, if I'm not mistaken," said Deirdre.

"Yes, your Grace," she said, giving a formal curtsy. "Though I'm surprised you know my name."

"Jarl Elisif has insisted that I learn all the jarls' retainers in every hold, and it was not unwise." Brelyna thought her friend sounded distracted, not quite able to give the mage her complete attention, though she remembered her name.

"And why have you followed us, Madena?" Lydia asked.

"To… to apologize for my jarl's behavior, first of all, and to thank you for not doing something drastic. And to offer my help. You seemed interested in investigating Rodrik's murder and finding the culprit. Jod has been too busy calming these mobs to conduct his own investigation, so he sent me to see what I could learn, which was little. I must get back now, but I can take you to the site of the murder tomorrow if you stop nearby."

"Yes," said Deirdre in that same distracted manner. "We must make ourselves useful somehow." Brelyna gave a sigh. Hard ground it would be.

"We'll be glad to accept your offer," Lydia said with more enthusiasm. "And could you do us another favor? I have messages to send. It will just take a moment to dash them off."

"Of course."

Lydia needed to borrow quill, ink, paper, and wax, as Brelyna was the only one who regularly carried them. As Brelyna fished in her saddlebags, Deirdre showed no interest in what these messages could be, but dismounted and led her horse over to some grass by the side of the road. She certainly did seem distracted.

Brelyna and J'zargo chatted with the Breton while Lydia wrote her messages. "I'm surprised a jarl with such views as Skald the Elder's has a Breton mage in his court," Brelyna said.

"I'm sure you know how it is, as a Dunmer mage," Madena said. "Nords are mostly no good at magic, so they're happy to rely on our skills when they're needed, then throw us out when they're done with us. Haven't you found that to be true?"

"Not from my current employer, no."

J'zargo sniffed. "But Nords are happy to buy our skooma then put us in jail for selling them skooma. They are hypocrites."

"I was lucky to maintain my position, in truth," Madena went on. "Skald wanted me to fight against the Imperials if the Civil War came to The Pale. I told him no, I'd given up fighting after I saw what my spells did in the Great War. I wanted no more of it, and told him I would only heal the wounded. That seemed good enough for him to keep me on."

"Lucky for you the war never came here."

"Yes, and for that we have our queen to thank." She looked over toward Deirdre with a mixture of admiration and concern. "Is she all right? I really thought she was going to Shout Skald into Oblivion, until Captain Ravenwood stepped in."

"It was close. I was ready to fry the boor myself. I think she was just angry on our behalf. And she's frustrated that we haven't been able to stop these murders. Then to be defied in such a manner, to think that innocents will be rounded up like animals in the land she supposedly rules. Her sense of powerlessness must have been too much for her."

"To have such power, and always refrain from using it — it must be difficult. I know I have had my own struggles, though my power is far less."

"She has done much to train her mind and her emotions to avoid such lapses of self-control. I thought I'd never again see her so close to losing it as I did just now."

They both looked thoughtfully for a moment at their queen, who was idly toying with a summer flower on the other side of the road. Then Lydia was done with her messages and brought them to Madena.

"This short one to the Royal Guard in Solitude, and this longer one to General Ralof in Whiterun," she said as she handed them over. "They should travel overnight, I'm afraid."

Deirdre had put her flower aside and was now showing more interest.

"I'll send the messages right away," Madena said. After arranging to meet again in the morning, she turned back toward Dawnstar.

"What were those messages about?" Deirdre asked.

Lydia looked at her solemnly. "It is time for these jarls to stop questioning your authority, my Queen. I have sent to Solitude for your Royal Guard. I'm having them meet us in Whiterun. I know you will not put up with the jarls single-handedly imprisoning innocents, and so that must be where we go next. And I've sent word to Ralof to have his army ready to remind Jarl Hrongar who holds the power in Skyrim."

Deirdre looked bewildered at this.

"Yes," said J'zargo, "Deirdre should, how do you say, put her foot down. She is far mightier and a thousand times wiser than these piddling jarls."

"It is wisely done," Brelyna put in. "If I know anything about Nords, it's that they respect power and the one wielding it. With your guard and a regiment or two of Ralof's troops behind you, you can avoid such situations as we just found ourselves in."

To Brelyna's surprise, Deirdre burst out in tears. Lydia, putting aside her role as housecarl, rushed to put an arm around her. "Darling, what is it? Don't let those bastards get you down. They're just puffing themselves up. In another day or two, we'll show them who's queen."

"It's not that," Deirdre said, pulling away and drying her eyes on the sleeve of her robes, though the tears kept coming. "I knew I was not ready to be queen, and told the jarls as much before they crowned me. If they now want to choose a different ruler, I don't much care."

"Then what is it?"

Deirdre sniffed, then gave out a long sigh. "I came so close to Shouting Skald into the next hold, turning his bones to jelly. And him an old man, defenseless before me. Unlike Ulfric, he'd never have survived it."

J'zargo gave a low growl. "Arrogant Nord deserved whatever he got, after what he said about Brelyna's and J'zargo's peoples. This one thought there was no place for such bigotry in the new Skyrim."

"He is an old man with many outdated opinions, and many are the Nords who agree with him. But I am the ruler of them all, am I not? The bad-hearted and the good, the bigoted and the open-minded. I must treat them all fairly, even if some of their views disgust me. And I certainly can't change what is in their hearts through force."

"You are right, of course," said Brelyna.

"But it's not just that. All the effort I put toward controlling my dragon soul, balancing its power with compassion, it hasn't done any good." She turned to Lydia, laying a hand on her arm. "Only you could stop me, my love, and I thank you for that."

"I'm sure it was just one lapse," Lydia said. "You can't be perfect all the time. And these traitors would do well to remember that, it will keep them in line."

Brelyna thought back to all that Deirdre had told them about training with the Greybeards at High Hrothgar. "Didn't Arngeir tell you that living with your dragon soul would require daily effort for the rest of your life? Surely you can expect a few bad days along with the good."

"Alduin said much the same thing as he died. He said he'd always be inside me, that I'd never be rid of him. Maybe today he showed himself." Deirdre looked off to the distance, where the sun had set behind the low hills of The Pale. "And maybe Arngeir was right. Maybe the Voice is too great a power to be let loose in the world. Maybe I should sequester myself in High Hrothgar and spend the rest of my life meditating on balance, like Jurgen Windcaller of old."

Here Lydia gave a "hrrrmph." Brelyna had heard her tales of High Hrothgar, the home of the Greybeards. Lydia said she'd nearly lost her mind in those gloomy halls high on the windswept, snow-plastered shoulder of the Throat of the World, waiting for Deirdre to finish her training and meditations with Arngeir and the other masters of the Voice. "You're just tired, my Queen. It's been a long, trying day. Let us find a camp before it gets much darker and get some sleep."

Deirdre agreed, and they began leading their horses down the road.

It was not long before J'zargo gave a little laugh.

"What could you possibly find to laugh about after the events of this day?" Brelyna asked.

"It is only that, out of the four of us back in Dawnstar, it was the warrior who kept the peace." He wiggled his whiskers. "It is funny, no?"


	10. Chapter 10 - A Visit with the Troops

**# # A Visit with the Troops # #**

Lydia cinched the last strap tight on Deirdre's saddlebags, then looked around camp, seeing nothing else that needed to be done. She hated wasting time like this when a killer was on the loose. Madena still hadn't arrived, and the morning was getting on. Brelyna and J'zargo stood nearby, having just finished their own packing, Brelyna stretching first one shoulder, then the other, and complaining about the hard ground they'd found to sleep on. At least Deirdre was using the time well, having gone a short way into the forest to meditate. After yesterday, she needed it. Lydia hoped it would help her regain the confidence she would need for the coming trials. The Deirdre they'd seen last night had been in no condition to hunt killers, much less to establish her authority in the face of unruly jarls.

She was spreading the ashes from the fire around a bit more when Madena finally arrived, apologetic for the delay, explaining that Jarl Skald would have her fired if he knew she was helping them. Lydia called for Deirdre, who soon emerged from the forest.

Lydia went over to greet her. "Are you well, my Queen?"

Deirdre gave her a reassuring nod and squeezed her arm. Her gaze was level and calm.

Half an hour later, they arrived at the murder scene, where Madena left them to their investigation. At first glance, it didn't look like there'd be much to learn. A broken-down wagon sat at one side of the road with one wheel missing. Rodrik's body had been removed, but the bloodstains on the cobbles were plain to see, as were the tufts of fur left behind.

"This Khajiit is shedding like it's First Seed, but here it is high summer," J'zargo said. "This makes no sense, unless he has some sort of rare skin condition."

"Or maybe someone is going to extraordinary lengths to leave as much evidence as possible," Brelyna said.

"Yes, evidence to lead our investigation in one direction only," said Deirdre.

"And look," said Brelyna, "here's another one of those bare footprints." The muddy spot she was pointing to was yards farther south from where the body had been found.

Lydia surveyed the scene. "The killer could easily have avoided that muddy spot, if he'd wanted to. Or worn boots, as J'zargo said the other day." She walked out into the road next to the wagon. "Look, here are tracks of another wagon." She bent down and examined them. "They're deep, and here you can see where the horse had to dig in its hooves to get going again. It looks like the wagon stopped next to Rodrik's and then pulled away. "

"Can you tell anything else?" Brelyna asked.

Lydia considered for a moment, examining the ground. "Yes, look at this hoof print. It's missing a bit of its shoe."

"Probably just a passerby stopping to offer help. There are no paw prints in the mud near the wagon tracks. The killer seems to have come from a different direction."

"Maybe," said Deirdre. "It's difficult to tell what happened." She didn't sound very hopeful.

They spent a couple of hours combing the area for any further clues, with no success. "We've learned little, it seems," said Brelyna.

"Perhaps that the killer is traveling by wagon," Deirdre replied.

"We can hardly be certain of that."

This elicited the first spark Lydia had seen from Deirdre. "No one from Dragon Bridge to here has seen any strange Khajiits, and certainly no Khajiits in the vicinity of the murders. Either the killer is an expert in illusion magic and is casting an invisibility spell every thirty seconds while traveling, or they can walk like ghosts through the marshes and forests. My septim's on a wagon in which the killer is hiding, so the question becomes, who's driving it?"

"It's no good to argue about the likelihood of one thing or another until we know more," said Lydia. "I say we push on to Whiterun."

"The killers may be heading that way," Deirdre admitted. "Or they may go to Windhelm. If I'm wrong about the wagon, they may even take Wayward Pass to Winterhold. I'd hate to commit to one road or the other."

Damn this indecision! Couldn't she see that they needed to go to Whiterun to quell these rebellious jarls? "Let's at least go as far as Fort Dunstad," Lydia said. "Maybe by morning, events will show us which way to go."

* * *

Lydia was pleased with the greeting they received when they reached the fort several hours later. The soldiers on watch in the north tower spotted them while they were a good distance away. "Captain Ravenwood is coming!" one shouted. And as they approached nearer: "And the queen!"

By the time they entered the bailey, the troops were ranked in orderly columns, with the fort's commander standing in front of them. As one, the soldiers dropped to one knee before their queen. Lydia glanced over at Deirdre to see whether this show of loyalty would have any effect, but her wife hardly reacted, giving just a faint smile, as if she doubted whether this devotion was truly meant for her, or whether she truly deserved it.

The four dismounted as an ostler came out to manage their horses. They approached the commander, who greeted them in turn, kneeling before Deirdre, saluting Lydia, and accepting the introductions of J'zargo and Brelyna with neither surprise nor animosity. It was the same with the troops. Lydia knew they must have heard about the murders committed by two Khajiits, but no mutterings rippled through the ranks as J'zargo took his place before them, and no angry stares were aimed in his direction. Partly their stern training, Lydia thought, and partly some of the older soldiers' experience serving with all sorts in the Imperial Army, which rubbed off on the younger recruits. And the regiment included not just Nords, but many other peoples who had thrown in their lot with Skyrim: Redguards, Cyrodillians, Bretons, and even an Orsimmer or two.

"What a surprise and an honor to receive you in Fort Dunstad, your Grace, and Captain Ravenwood," the commander was saying. "What brings you our way?"

Deirdre explained that they were on the trail of the culprits in the Khajiit murders, and asked if they had noticed anyone suspicious on the roads.

"No, just the usual travelers. We've been on the lookout for Khajiits, of course, but Ahkari's caravan came through heading for Riften over a week ago, around the time of the first murders over in Dragon Bridge. They haven't come back on their usual return trip to Dawnstar, and our patrols saw them camped off the road down near the Weynon Stones. Probably laying low until these murders are solved, I thought, but apparently Jarl Skald thought different. A band of his guards came through yestereve, saying they were going to arrest the whole caravan, and any other Khajiits they came across. Then they were going to take them to Whiterun."

"We know of that plan," Deirdre said.

"We didn't interfere, since we don't get involved in hold business."

"As you should, though there may come a time when I ask you to."

"As you command, my Queen."

"And other Khajiits, or any other travelers?"

"Ma'dran's caravan hasn't been seen, though they should have returned from Windhelm by now. Doing the same as Ahkari, is my guess. Other than that, it's just been regular travelers and merchants, Nords mainly, but a few Redguards and Bretons, too. Nothing out of the usual."

"We'll want a list of travelers passing south since the day before yesterday, the type and number of people, whether on foot, horseback, or wagon."

"I'll have the captain of the watch put that together, but it will have to be from the guards' memories; we don't keep lists of travelers."

"Perhaps that should change, with this killer on the loose," said Brelyna. "In Sadrith Mora, House Telvanni required all outlanders to purchase hospitality papers."

The commander eyed her skeptically.

"Nords would never put up with that kind of surveillance," Lydia explained. "Just keeping lists of who's traveling where, it would be an affront to our freedom. Even if it was only outlanders we were keeping track of, there's too much risk that such tactics would be turned on our own people."

"For now," said Deirdre, "keep an eye out for any lone Khajiits, but we hope soon to have a better description of the suspects."

"It will be done, your Grace. Now, may I see you to your accommodations? And after you settle in, the troops would be honored to demonstrate their training."

Deirdre seemed hesitant about the latter, but Lydia put in, "It will be a pleasure to see how they're coming along." It was still only mid-afternoon, and Lydia chafed at not getting farther down the road she knew they would have to take anyway, but perhaps a stopover here would boost Deirdre's spirits. Surely, witnessing dozens of soldiers ready to march at her command would bolster her confidence.

Yet once the troops had run through a series of maneuvers, Deirdre betrayed no such positive signs. Lydia glanced at her often as the soldiers showed how quickly they could form a shield-wall, how sturdily it would hold against an enemy onslaught, and how deft they were with sword and spear. She expected to see some glimmer of pride in her eyes, or at least a smile on her lips, but Deirdre remained somber.

It was only after, when Lydia had gone over to talk with the sergeant in charge of training, leaving Deirdre behind on the small viewing platform with the commander, that she noticed the beginnings of a change. As she and the sergeant discussed a few of the finer points of shield-wall tactics, she noticed one reticent soldier approach the dais and drop to a knee before Deirdre. Lydia couldn't hear what they spoke of then, but whatever it was, after a few moments of serious conversation, Deirdre broke into a smile. Then another soldier got up the courage to approach, and then another, and soon Deirdre had an audience of a dozen or so troops, both male and female, gathered around her.

Finishing the conversation with the sergeant, Lydia went over to listen to Deirdre and her audience. A few of the soldiers on the edge of the crowd noticed her and saluted, and one even bowed. She waved them off with a roll of her eyes and a smile. Deirdre was right — all this adulation could get tiring. But right now, maybe it was what Deirdre needed. Lydia pointedly turned her attention to the queen, and the soldiers did the same.

"What was it like to ride on the back of a dragon?"

"Oh, it was the best thing in the world — or nearly the best thing, if you take my meaning." Deirdre gave a wink and the soldiers laughed. "Imagine galloping on a horse, only twice as fast, at the least. And then you're so high up, like standing on a mountaintop. The wind in your hair, the countryside spread out below you, the dragon swooping and diving. It was thrilling."

"Weren't you afraid you'd fall off?"

"Odahviing made me feel as secure on his back as I do on my own horse. It's only too bad we didn't have longer together. I do miss the flying."

"It must have been hard to lose him."

"It was, but I still feel he's somehow always with me."

The questioning went on, one asking if any regular Nord could learn to use the Voice, another asking about the confrontation with Ulfric. Finally, one asked about how close they were to finding the killers.

"Not close enough," Deirdre admitted. "But we're learning more and more. Our hunch is that the Khajiit — or Khajiits as we now know — have help, and probably not from one of their own kind. As soon as we learn who that is, we'll have a much better chance of finding them."

"You'll get 'em, my Queen," one fellow said. "You put an end to Alduin, a few killers should be easy."

When the audience was over, Lydia took Deirdre aside. "What did I miss?"

"Oh, that first fellow was one of those Nord soldiers from the Imperial Army at Riften Pass. Wanted to thank me for sparing him and his fellows. And to personally offer his service, even to the death, since he owes me his life."

"And you didn't even roll your eyes."

"No, I'm beginning to see what an honor it is. And do you know what he told me? I'd said something about my regret at the devastation Odahviing and I wrought that day. But he said if it was bloodshed I was worried about, there'd have been much more if we hadn't been there. Who knows how many would have died in the siege if the Imperials had reached the city's gates? Maybe I did more good than I thought."

"As everyone has told you who was there that day. If I hadn't been near death at the time, I'd have told you the same myself."

"And at least from that I learned how to use Odahviing's power less horrifically."

"And now I hope you realize your power comes at least as much from these soldiers as it does from magic and dragons and the power of your Voice. You see how much they love you. You just need time to learn to use that power effectively, as you did Odahviing's. But use it you must, and soon."

Deirdre looked at her. "You are right, Lydia." Lydia was glad to see no hesitation in her eyes.

After that it was nearly dinner time and Deirdre insisted on taking it in the regular mess hall rather than the commander's quarters. Along with the mead, it warmed Lydia's heart to have Deirdre seated next to her at a long table engaging in the usual boisterous talk and joining in the songs. J'zargo and Brelyna sat nearby and seemed to enjoy being accepted in the company.

As late as the evening went, and as much mead as they'd drunk, Deirdre still insisted on meditating before bedtime. It was a discipline she'd neglected too often recently, she said. She did the same early the next morning, and then they were off while the sun was still low in the sky.

"Let's see what's become of our Khajiit friends," she said with more determination than Lydia had heard from her in days.

* * *

Two hours later, they arrived at the ransacked Khajiit camp. Lydia noted the flare of anger in Deirdre's eyes as they came on the scene, and the way she dismounted and took charge of investigating it.

She herself held back, surveying the scene. For some reason, she didn't want to get too close. Crumpled hide tents and a couple of half-empty chests were about all that remained. The wagons were gone, along with any valuable trading goods — and the Khajiits themselves, of course.

"At least there are no signs of bloodshed," she offered.

"If Skald's guardsmen have harmed them…" Deirdre said.

J'zargo held up a heavy fur robe. "Khajiits will be needing this come winter, or sooner." He gave an anticipatory shiver.

"This was Ahkari's caravan, wasn't it?" Deirdre asked.

"I believe so," said Lydia.

"To think, we helped them fight off those bandits last year. And now look."

Lydia did look, but could say nothing. It was difficult for her to admit, but viewing this scene made her not only sad for Ahkari and her companions, but also uneasy. A year ago, if she had been ordered to round up Khajiits with no charges or evidence against them, would she have obeyed? She knew the answer. Not that Jarl Balgruuf would have given such an order, but still. If the command had come down, she wouldn't have thought too much about it; she'd have figured there must be good reason for it.

But that was before she'd met Deirdre, who had shown her what it was like as an outsider in a land where cries of "Skyrim is for the Nords!" were as common as snowflakes in winter. She still remembered the hurt in Deirdre's eyes when she'd used that battle cry in her first days as Deirdre's housecarl.

Now Deirdre was looking at her with concern. "What's the matter? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

Lydia held her gaze for a moment, then looked back to the Khajiits' scattered possessions. "No, not a ghost, unless it's the ghost of Lydias past."

The silence stretched on for a moment, then Brelyna broke it.

"If Skald wasn't misleading us, we should find Ahkari and her people outside Whiterun."

"That's right," said Deirdre. "We should make haste to get there this morning. We accomplished little yesterday, and at least we can do some good for the Khajiits. But let us gather as many of their belongings as we can carry. I have a feeling they've been robbed as well as arrested. Hrongar and Skald will have much to atone for."

Lydia smiled, glad that at least one of them was back to her usual self.


	11. Chapter 11 - Battle-Born Farm

**# # Battle-Born Farm # #**

_What a changed prospect!_ Deirdre thought as she and her companions approached Whiterun from the north. The cliffs on which Dragonsreach had perched for millennia were still imposing, thrusting hundreds of feet into the sky. But where the soaring wooden structure of the Great Porch had once loomed over the cliff-top parapets, there now stood the half-built stone structure of the new Dragonsreach. It would take years to finish it, so laborious was building from stone. But after what the elves had done to the city, Whiterun wanted no more of wood. It was a different place Deirdre was returning to than the one she'd first seen nearly a year before.

And she was far different, too. Or maybe not. Still struggling with her anger, still wrestling with her dragon soul. When she thought of how close she'd come to unleashing both back in Dawnstar, she felt ashamed. Yet shame would do no good. Her dragon soul would always be part of her, and suppressing it only ensured it would lash out in unpredictable ways.

No, she must find balance with it, as Master Arngeir had instructed her. That was the purpose of daily meditation, but she'd become so busy in Solitude, and so confident that she'd achieved balance, that she'd neglected the practice. And now here she was, starting over yet again, climbing out of the depression that always seemed to follow on the heels of letting her dragon soul get the upper hand. Yet between Lydia's patient encouragement, the loyal support of her troops at Fort Dunstad, and her determination to aid the unfairly imprisoned Khajiit traders, she felt nearly back to her usual self. Meditation had helped as well. She felt strong and centered, ready to meet whatever challenges Jarl Hrongar might present, while losing neither her calm nor her strength.

What she wasn't prepared for was the scene that met them as they rounded the eastern side of the promontory on which Whiterun was built. Tucked beneath those rocky cliffs, Battle-Born Farm was usually a-bustle with activity, its windmill grinding wheat, and Alfhild Battle-Born tending the fields of leeks and gourds along with Gwendolyn, the hired helper who occupied the farmhouse. Deirdre had stopped and talked to the women many times on her trips out of the city to gather alchemy ingredients for Arcadia's Cauldron. Alfhild had even offered to pay her to harvest the fields, but Deirdre had declined. Why be stuck in one small plot when she could roam the plains and the forests?

But now the bustle was of guards running in and out of the house and maneuvering a wagon up to it. Nearby stood Alfhild, distraught, being comforted by her father, Olfrid Battle-Born, the patriarch of the family.

"What now?" Deirdre asked, reining her horse to a halt.

"I think we can guess what," said Lydia. "Let's dismount here, before we trample the evidence even more than the guards already have."

It didn't take long for their worst fears to be confirmed. Olfrid recognized them as they walked up the track leading into the farmstead. Forgetting himself in his anger, he pushed his daughter roughly aside and stepped in front of the door to the farmhouse.

"You! We'd heard about these murders, and now the killer has come here. Our loyal Gwendolyn is dead, and if Alfhild had gotten here any earlier, she might be as well. And what have you done about it, Deirdre Morningsong? Not a thing!"

"Father…" Alfhild said, placing a restraining hand on his arm and giving her an apologetic look.

Deirdre hardly expected a better greeting. Olfrid had never wanted anything to do with her, unless it was to brag about his family's wealth and loyalty to the Empire.

"This is your Queen, Battle-Born," Lydia said.

He eyed her with nearly as much hostility as he'd shown Deirdre. Lydia may have been the Hero of Whiterun, but the Battle-Borns held that the Altmer never would have attacked their city in the first place if Deirdre hadn't burned the Aldmeri Embassy to the ground or thwarted the Thalmor in a host of other ways. Heroism that should never have been necessary was as little good as no heroism at all.

"I wouldn't have voted for her, and I don't know why that milk-drinker Balgruuf did. He was always a fence-sitter, and look where that got us! But we have a new jarl now."

This was just wasting time, Deirdre thought. "Yes, I've heard. I'll deal with him later. But for now, I want to catch Gwen's killer as much as you do. Stand aside, since you seem only to be in the way."

"But this is my farm!"

"Father, Queen Deirdre and Lydia and their friends are only here to help," said Alfhild.

"Without them, your own husband might yet live, Alfhild."

Before Deirdre could think of any way to quell this distraction, Lydia spoke up, her gaze boring into Olfrid. "You do Idolaf no honor if you say his sacrifice was unnecessary. As I remember it, he fought bravely on that day when we were all united against a single foe."

"As we should be now in catching this killer," said Deirdre.

"Yes, father, maybe they can help."

Olfrid still stood blocking the door.

"Or I can have the guards remove you." Deirdre calmly held Olfrid's gaze.

The murder must have been discovered only recently, as the captain of the guard hadn't yet arrived. The guards, who had stopped what they were doing when Deirdre and her friends approached, now looked back and forth from her to Lydia and Olfrid.

"Oi, Bjorn," Lydia said to one of the guards. Deirdre guessed from the cowed look on his face that Bjorn had entered the guard service when Lydia served Jarl Balgruuf. Her renown had been great even then. "Is this any way to run a crime scene? It looks like you guards and these bystanders have trampled over any footprints or wagon tracks the killers might have left."

"You think there's more than one?" the guard asked. "And they travel by wagon?"

"We do," said Deirdre. "Now show us what happened."

"Yes, your Grace," Bjorn said.

He led them toward the door to the farmhouse. At first it seemed that Olfrid would continue blocking the way, but Alfhild placed both hands on his chest and tried to push him back, giving him a pleading look. At last he gave way.

For the first time, Deirdre noticed blood on Alfhild's hands. "Were you the one to find her, Alfhild?"

Alfhild nodded. "I got here at ten o'clock, just like every day. Usually, Gwen is outside by the time I get here, but not today. So I went in. It was awful. I lost my head and tried to stanch her wounds, but I soon realized she must have been dead for hours, she was so cold."

Deirdre placed a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry you had to go through that."

Inside, it was much like the other crime scenes, save that the body had yet to be removed. Gwendolyn lay on her back in front of the fireplace at the center of the room, her arms at her sides. J'zargo growled at the sight, and Brelyna gave an "Oh my!" Deirdre neither wanted nor needed to examine the ghastly wounds on the woman's face and torso, they were so obviously the same as all the others.

"Save for those horrible wounds, one would think she's resting peacefully," Brelyna said.

"Too peacefully," said Deirdre. She examined one arm, then the other, finding no cuts, not even a bruise or scrape. "It looks as if she didn't fight back or even try to ward off these blows. There's not much blood, either. And look, her lips have that blue tinge."

"Judging by that half-laid fire," Lydia said, "she was just building it up to cook breakfast."

Deirdre stood and surveyed the room. The lone dining table was empty, but a pitcher and cup stood on a sideboard. When she picked up the glass, it left a wet ring behind, though it was empty. "She rose early and had a glass of water first thing, as one does." She dipped a finger in the pitcher and tasted it. "Yes, deathbell."

"So she had her drink," said Lydia, "then went to lay the fire, and that's when the poison took her."

"You mean she was dead before the killer even attacked her?" the guard named Bjorn said. "But why? That doesn't make any sense!"

"You're right, but the killers must have their reasons. This isn't the first time these methods have been used."

J'zargo looked out the window. "The farm next door is not far away. Perhaps killers worried about screaming."

"But if they killed her with poison, why rend her body like that?"

"That's exactly what we asked in Dragon Bridge," said Lydia. "Come, Bjorn, use your head. Let's see if you make it out the same as we did."

Bjorn looked at the body, the pitcher, and then the body again. After a moment, he said, "They wanted to make sure we knew a Khajiit did it."

J'zargo gave a little purr. "Nord guard is smart, yes. And perhaps the Khajiit is only being used by someone else."

"But why?" the guard persisted.

"Maybe someone wanted exactly the result we've recently seen," said Deirdre. "For all the Khajiits in Skyrim to be rounded up and imprisoned."

Bjorn just shook his head in befuddlement.

"We are as confused as you are, Bjorn," said Lydia. "But if this just happened this morning, then we're catching up to the killers. Did the guards patrolling the area see anything? Or the neighbors? The sun rises early — the murder must have happened in daylight."

Bjorn shook his head. "We asked the neighboring farm and they hadn't seen anything, and neither had the guard who's always posted there. And we were patrolling the road, but we didn't happen to be nearby at the time. We had been up to Whitewatch Tower at dawn, and we don't come back down until eight. We were on our way back shortly after ten when Alfhild came running after us."

"So if the killers knew your usual pattern, they probably didn't escape that way, but headed south. What of the guards at the White River Bridge?"

"We haven't had time to question them yet," Bjorn replied.

"Let's see what else we can find here, then go question them," said Deirdre.

Further searches were fruitless, however.

"Not even those tufts of fur from the other crime scenes," Lydia said.

It was strange, Deirdre thought, as if the killers were now so sure a Khajiit had been identified as the culprit that they didn't need to leave more clues.

Searching outside proved even less useful, there was such a miscellany of foot, livestock, and wagon tracks in the farmyard, and the cobbled road in front of the farm bore few impressions at all, it was so well built.

Deirdre was about to suggest they go question the bridge guards, but Brelyna interrupted her. "Let's think," she said, scanning the road and terrain around the farm. "If the killers are traveling by wagon, they would probably try to hide it someplace, to avoid detection. The landscape is too open across the road, and the farm on the south is too nearby. So they must have hid the wagon to the north — maybe behind those rocks we see there."

"There are a couple of mining veins up there, and an abandoned watchtower," Lydia said. And the secret way Balgruuf and the city defenders sallied forth during the siege, Deirdre knew, though Lydia hadn't mentioned it.

"Not much used today, I'd guess," said Brelyna. "Come, let's take a look."

They followed a low stone wall that marked off the farm's northern field to a point where it nearly met the rocks, scanning the ground all the while. At the corner, they were rewarded.

"Look!" said Lydia, "those rains did us some good." The storm that had soaked them in Morthal had moved south and sat over Whiterun two days previous. Where everything else had dried out by now, rainwater had puddled in a depression between the wall and the rock cliff, leaving a good muddy spot to capture footprints. It contained two sets, a barefoot Khajiit's and another left by a pair of boots. Deirdre felt a tingle go down her spine. The killer was close, she was sure of it.

"That was remarkably careless of him, leaving his own prints behind as well as the Khajiit's," Brelyna said.

"Or he was extraordinarily careful during the previous murders to conceal his prints," said Deirdre. "Perhaps he was in a hurry this morning, knowing the guards' schedule, and not wanting to be seen from the road."

"Let's keep looking," Lydia said.

Working their way north, they came to a narrow track that led in from the road to the ore veins and the watchtower. Wagon tracks were visible here and there, but it was hard to tell how recent they were. "Likely left by miners coming in to work the veins," said Lydia.

They had better luck as they followed the track out toward the road. "There!" Lydia said, pointing to a muddy spot in the center of the road. "That broken horseshoe!" Her friends gathered round the impressions. Two of the horse's hooves had left prints, and one was indeed missing an inch of iron from the shoe.

"It's the same wagon as the one that stopped outside Dawnstar," Brelyna said.

"So now we're certain," said Deirdre. "The culprit is bringing the Khajiits by wagon to the sites of the murders. We're getting close! Now the only question is, who is driving it? We can put out an alert for a wagon drawn by a poorly shod horse, but it would be much easier if we had a description of the driver."

"This one thinks one thing is certain," said J'zargo. "The driver must be a Nord, no? Maybe one employed by your jarls who hate the Khajiits so much."

"That's remarkably cynical, J'zargo," Brelyna said. "To murder their own people in order to blame the Khajiits? I can't believe it."

It did seem an outlandish idea, Deirdre thought. It could even be true. But she put it aside. "The main thing is, we don't want to jump to any conclusions. Let's see if we can track this wagon and see where it went."

Their luck ran out before the wagon track reached the road. No tracks remained to show which way the wagon turned into the main road, and the road itself was so well paved that few tracks were visible. They saw no more prints of the partially shod horse as they made their way south to the White River Bridge. Questioning the guards was equally fruitless, as they'd seen too many wagons going every direction since dawn.

Deirdre tried not to feel too dejected. They were gaining on the murderers. But for now, she needed to turn her attention to the plight of the Khajiits. She turned to her friends. "It's time we confronted Hrongar."

"Good idea," said Lydia. "But first, we should visit Ralof at the new army garrison."

Deirdre thought it over. It would be good to see Ralof again, and they could all use some time to gather themselves after their travels. "Very well," she agreed, though she hated the delay.

Lydia's pleased smile made her wonder what she had up her sleeve.


	12. Chapter 12 - Hrongar

**# # Hrongar # #**

"It's good to see you, lass!" Ralof, grinning broadly, wrapped Deirdre in a bear hug that lifted her off her feet. They'd hardly dismounted when he'd come out to greet them in the bailey of the new army garrison he commanded.

Lydia watched in amusement. If any other Nord male had called Deirdre "lass," it might have been the last "lass" he ever spoke, at least in the queen's direction. And as much as Deirdre had learned to tolerate the bowing and kneeling, she would never require it of Ralof. No formality would come between these two, not since the experience they'd shared when Alduin attacked Helgen.

It was a good thing Deirdre didn't go in for men, Lydia thought, or she herself might have some cause for jealousy. As far as she could see, Ralof was everything one could want in a Nord: handsome in a rugged way, brave and strong but also kind, and possessed of a good sense of humor. He was most Nord lasses' dream.

Those thoughts were put in their proper place when Deirdre said, "And you as well, my brother." Ralof released her, gazed at her for a moment, then turned to Lydia. He clapped her on the shoulders, and she responded likewise.

"Keeping our queen safe, no doubt?" he said.

"Always. And speaking of which, has the Royal Guard arrived?"

"Aye, just this morning."

"Excellent. And the new garrison is coming along well, I see."

The new headquarters for Skyrim's army was nearly finished, a sturdy stone structure built off the west side of Whiterun's curtain wall, replacing flimsier wooden fences and platforms and presenting a sheer defense to any attackers who might come that way.

"I'm very pleased," said Ralof. "Room for two divisions, with new practice fields just beyond the walls, and better security for the city to boot."

"And those divisions are ready for the plan I suggested?"

"They are. But more on that later." He gave her a wink as he turned to greet Brelyna and J'zargo.

Deirdre gave Lydia a questioning look, but she only smiled; no use giving away the secret just yet.

Ralof led them across the bailey toward his chambers and war-room with Deirdre at his side, and Lydia following behind with Brelyna and J'zargo.

"I thought you might come sooner, see how the army training is coming along, watch the progress of the construction."

"I wanted to, of course, but other affairs of the realm have kept me busy. And I knew you'd have the army well in hand. We were impressed with what we saw in Fort Dunstad, weren't we, Lydia?"

"Oh, aye," Lydia said from behind.

Ralof ignored the compliment, putting a brotherly arm across Deirdre's shoulders and looking at her with concern. "You look as if the cares of Mundus have been eating at you. Too many late nights burning candles over reports and requests, would be my guess."

"And don't forget the ledgers," said Deirdre.

"Ach, Alduin never had you looking this worried, lass. You can't tell me that ruling a bunch of Nords is harder than taking on the World Eater. Just make sure we have our mead and we're happy, am I right?" He looked back over his shoulder and gave Lydia a grin.

"If only it were that easy. But in preventing the end of the world, I had but one task: find and defeat Alduin. Keeping the people of Skyrim safe and well provided for seems a more particular responsibility, with many obligations and challenges, frequently arising all at once. And now these murders, on top of everything else."

"We've heard of them, of course, including this last one, right outside Whiterun. And Jarl Hrongar's new prison camp for the Khajiits — lot o' good it's done." They arrived at the large doors into the garrison and passed through, stopping for a moment in the entry hall. "And he really did that without your approval?"

"He and Jarl Skald say that keeping their people safe from murderers is their first responsibility, though they hardly seemed concerned with catching the actual murderers."

"You need to put your foot down, lass. Show them who's in charge."

"Oh, I mean to. And I have a plan for the Khajiits, if they'll agree to it. It's clearly not safe for them out on the roads of Skyrim, judging by what I've seen from the people. Tell me, has anything been done with the Imperial fortress at Helgen?"

Ralof looked a bit sheepish. "I've been meaning to, of course. But I decided it was more important to reinforce the border fort at Pale Pass, since it occupies the high ground."

"Not to worry. It is as well for what I have in mind."

She said no more, and Lydia was wondering what this idea could be when Brelyna suggested they go to their rooms to freshen up.

Deirdre looked at her, then at Lydia in surprise. "I thought we'd just drop our things here, then go directly to meet with Hrongar. And I want to see how the Khajiits are faring in this camp."

"Brelyna's right," Lydia said. "It's an important meeting with Hrongar, and we should all prepare ourselves, especially the queen." She turned to Ralof with an inquiring look.

"You'll find your saddlebags in my bed-chamber, which I've made available for your use. And you'll also find that chest the royal guards brought with them."

Lydia couldn't help smiling at the confused look Deirdre was giving them. She turned to Brelyna. "Those items I mentioned are in the chest. I hope they haven't become too wrinkled. And please check that Sonja polished the crown. Our queen must look her best."

"We'll see to it," Brelyna said, and she and J'zargo headed up the stairs, led by one of the porters.

"Ralof, if you'll send word to Hrongar to be ready to receive his queen in two hours — assuming that will give your troops enough time to prepare." Ralof nodded. "And we'll need some lunch. No one wants to confront an unruly jarl on an empty stomach."

Deirdre looked from Lydia to Ralof and back again. "What's going on here?"

"You're not the only one with secret plans."

"I feel as if you're all conspiring against me!"

Ralof flashed that dashing grin at Deirdre. "We've got your back, my Queen."

Lydia beamed at them both. "I couldn't have said it better myself."

* * *

Lydia felt confident as she marched up the steps of Dragonsreach on one side of Deirdre, with Ralof on the other, and Brelyna and J'zargo walking behind. For another warrior, returning to the scene of the siege and retreat might have brought back awful memories, but not for Lydia – although the truth was that she didn't remember much. Probably better that way. If she felt any trepidation, it was over the impending confrontation with Hrongar, but even that was little. Why had Balgruuf ever ceded his throne to that lout?

No, what she really felt was pride in her wife, and the greeting they'd received since entering the city. They'd marched over from the garrison in a phalanx of royal guards, four marching in front and eight behind, with a dozen of Ralof's troops coming behind them. In front, bannermen carried flags bearing the new crest of Skyrim, a scene of jagged, snowy peaks with a wolf, a bear, and a heavily antlered stag in the foreground, and a tiny dragon flying in the distance. The same crest was on the sash Ralof wore over his ceremonial armor. Lydia's sash was similar, but with the addition of the Royal Guard's emblem, a flying dragon bearing a rider in mage's robes and a golden crown.

Deirdre wore that crown now, polished to a high sheen, but she'd exchanged the mage's robes in favor of a fine burgundy suit and trousers, with a richly brocaded mantle over all. Her boots, much scuffed and splattered with travel, were exchanged for more formal leather shoes. All of these had arrived in the chest Lydia had instructed Sonja to pack. Seeing her wife so impressively arrayed, and seeing the response of the people, she knew she'd done well.

The guards at the city gate had opened it immediately on their arrival, dropping to one knee before their queen. Inside, the people had come out to witness the procession. Some were silent, but Lydia was pleased to see the majority of them cheering, and even more pleased to see Deirdre's eyes glowing with pride, her head held high. She heard remarks that the murderer wouldn't get far now; clearly, Hrongar's actions with the Khajiits hadn't won the mass of the people over, so ineffective had they proven.

And unlike the other towns they'd passed through, some in the crowd even shouted approval for Brelyna and J'zargo. The people well remembered how much they owed these two.

Arcadia's was the first face Lydia recognized, standing and waving from the front of her alchemy shop. Deirdre couldn't help breaking protocol to go over and give her a hug. The people cheered all the harder; the queen hadn't forgotten where she started, nor the people who had helped her on the way.

They reached the Wind District, where Aela and Vilkas waved to them from the steps of the partially rebuilt Jorrvaskr. The place would never be what it once was. It had been built from the upturned hull of a greatship, one of the fleet that had carried Ysgramor and his Five Hundred Companions to Skyrim eons ago. But the Companions were trying to rebuild it in as much of the spirit of the old place as they could, with a curving wooden roof already thrusting into the sky. It would be the only wooden building left in Whiterun when they were done.

And now they had only the steep steps of Dragonsreach to climb, with the crowd's noise dwindling below them as they ascended. The doors to the rebuilt hall opened and a page announced them: "Her majesty, Queen Deirdre of Skyrim! Captain Lydia Ravenwood of Whiterun. General Ralof of Riverwood. Brelyna Maryon of House Telvanni. And J'zargo of Elsweyr."

It was a long walk down the hall to the jarl's dais. The place was not as imposing as Lydia remembered it. A temporary wooden ceiling had been installed while the masons labored on the vaulting roof above. The ceiling was only three stories high, which in any other hall would have been impressive, but it felt cramped compared to the Dragonsreach of old. But much else was the same. Long tables lined either side of the hall and the jarl's retainers stood before them. Lydia recognized many of them from her days in service to Jarl Balgruuf, but many she did not. Yet to a man and a woman, they knelt as the procession passed them.

Finally they arrived at the dais, the bannermen and guards in front stepping off to one side to let the royal party approach the jarl's throne. Lydia was pleased to see Balgruuf off to one side, also taking a knee. He gave them all a wink as he did so. Jarl Hrongar stayed in his seat on the throne, while his steward and housecarl, neither of whom Lydia recognized, dropped to one knee.

Deirdre stepped forward. Above her loomed the blackened skull of Numinex, the ancient dragon captured by King Olaf in days long past and imprisoned on the Great Porch of Dragonsreach. The skull had been rescued from the siege wreckage and replaced in its rightful spot above the throne. It wouldn't be Dragonsreach without the dragon, after all.

Lydia's first view of Deirdre had been in this very spot, but how different it all was, now that Deirdre wielded the power of her Voice and her army. And it seemed the queen changed just in the last hours, and not simply her raiment. As she'd dressed, Brelyna had coached her on demeanor and bearing, drawing on all she could remember of her mother and father. They had grown up before the Red Year, and passed on to Brelyna all they remembered of how power was wielded when Telvanni had been the leading house of Morrowind.

"Remember, you hold the power," Brelyna had said. "There's no need for anger or shouting or threats. Stay calm and quiet, but never waver." A little of the imperious House Telvanni style went a long way, and Lydia noticed how calm Deirdre was as she stood before Hrongar.

Hrongar was different than Lydia remembered as well. He still wore his hair cropped close to his skull and his blond beard tied into a point that hung from his chin. And he still wore his old horned armor. But he appeared to have let himself go in the months since the siege. Where the stout leather-and-steel armbands he wore around his biceps once strained to contain his bulging muscles, now they hung loose, as did the bracers on his forearms. The skin of his face was rather wan, his eyes rimmed with red, and beneath his armor Lydia thought she detected a paunch. Too much mead and not enough training, clearly.

Half a minute had now passed, with Hrongar still slouched on the throne, much as his brother had used to do. His steward, still kneeling, was looking at him sideways, and softly clearing his throat.

At last Hrongar rose, then went to one knee. "It is a pleasure to welcome you to Dragonsreach, my Queen, and your companions as well." There was little pleasure in his voice. He waited there on one knee, and continued to wait, as Deirdre let the moment stretch on, paying Hrongar in kind.

"Rise, Hrongar," she said at last. "I still remember you were the first to believe I was the Dragonborn. Much has changed since then, apparently."

"Aye, my Queen, it has." He regarded her for a moment, taking advantage of the height of his position on the dais. Then he stepped down and gestured toward one of the long tables, with several empty chairs near its head. "But come, let us sit. I've had mead and ale and other refreshments laid out. Let us raise a mug and talk over our differences."

Deirdre gave him half a smile. "I thank you for your hospitality, but we really don't have the time. And there will be no discussion of differences, for they make no matter. I am here only to tell you that I will free the Khajiits you have unfairly imprisoned, then I'm going to get back to hunting the actual killers. We are close on their tails, and would be closer but for this distraction."

Hrongar returned the grim smile and resumed his seat on the throne. "So that's the way of it, eh?" He looked over at Ralof. "And that's why your steel-booted thugs are practicing out by the prison camp."

Lydia felt a warm glow as Deirdre's eyebrows shot up in surprise. The queen's sidelong smile of thanks was all the reward she needed for a plan that seemed to be turning out perfectly. And Hrongar calling the soldiers steel-booted thugs! She nearly burst out laughing. It was true that Ralof had requisitioned new armor for the troops, with steel boots replacing the usual fur ones. They'd always been outclassed by both the Imperials and the Altmer, and Ralof was determined his army wouldn't continue at such a disadvantage.

Ralof didn't bother smiling, keeping his mouth in a set line. "Steel-booted thugs, eh? I remember when they were called brave sons and daughters of Skyrim. But they're not _my_ steel-booted thugs, they're Queen Deirdre's."

"Do you think you can intimidate me, having them march up and down by the prison camp?"

"You can take the exercises any way you want, mate."

At this, Hrongar gripped the arm of his chair. His steward bent down and whispered something in his ear, and the jarl turned his attention back to Deirdre. Lydia took the lapse in the confrontation to glance over at Balgruuf, seated off to one side. The old jarl looked on with a bemused expression, but gave her an encouraging nod.

Hrongar seemed to have gotten the better of his temper and now addressed Deirdre more calmly, though it came out sounding as if he were explaining a complex situation to a child. "This is my hold, my Queen, and it is my duty to protect my people by any means necessary." Lydia thought open anger might be less risky if he hoped to avoid raising Deirdre's ire.

"And an impressive job you're doing of it, judging by this morning's events."

"Only because we haven't rounded them all up yet! Even now, our guards are bringing in Ma'dran's caravan from Windhelm."

"And did Ulfric help you with that?"

"Ulfric! No, I have no truck with Ulfric. We waited until they crossed into The Pale, then nabbed 'em. And Dengeir in Falkreath was so eager that he's already rounded up the Khajiits down there."

"Meaning neither of these groups could have taken part in the murders."

"But there are other straggler Khajiits in the other holds. When we've rounded them all up, then the people will be safe."

"Hardly. While you've been busy falsely imprisoning innocents, the actual killers got away right under your nose. We've learned much about them by patiently investigating every murder, following the clues where they've led us. Meanwhile, you and Skald have merely stoked the people's fears and scapegoated the innocent."

"Who cares! They're just cat-people! We all know they're a bunch of skooma dealers and thieves."

J'zargo gave a growl at this, and Lydia hoped he wouldn't do anything foolish.

"Enough!" Deirdre said, and for the first time her tone was sharp. "You are right that it is a jarl's duty to keep his people safe. Judging by the grumbling I heard on the way in, your people think you're failing in that task. But once the murderers crossed from Haafingar to Hjaalmarch, it became my duty as well, for they threaten the safety of all Skyrim's people. And it is also my duty to keep Skyrim safe for all people who pass through it, including our friends, the Khajiit traders."

"Friends, you call them? Typical."

Deirdre ignored him and went on. "As your queen, I command that you release the Khajiits you have unfairly imprisoned and that you return any possessions you may have confiscated. And I further command you to arrest no more innocents, but to put your guards to work helping us track down the actual killers."

"You really think I will put up with this?"

"I do. I doubt you'll ask your guards to defy both my Royal Guard and Skyrim's army. And I further doubt they'd follow any such commands."

"We'll call a new jarlmoot!"

"By what precedent? The jarls only meet on the death of a monarch, or am I wrong?"

Hrongar had no answer for this.

"Or perhaps you'd like to challenge me to single combat, as Ulfric did with High King Torygg?"

Lydia nearly broke out laughing as Hrongar stifled a whimper.

Deirdre looked at the jarl for a moment longer. "Come, friends, I believe we're done here."

With that, they turned to leave the hall. Lydia looked over to see Balgruuf smiling and nodding in approval.


	13. Chapter 13 - Kharjo's Tale

**# # Kharjo's Tale # #**

"Nord guards must protect Khajiits, or this one will," J'zargo growled, flexing his claws, hardly able to believe the sordid scene before him.

When he'd first contemplated attending the College of Winterhold, he'd had some fears about Skyrim, he'd heard so much about the fearsome Nords and their views of outlanders. Only the fact that his people were allowed to travel Skyrim freely, trading their goods from Riften to Dawnstar and from Windhelm to Markarth, had persuaded him in the end. And now to see his people brought so low, penned up in something no better than a corral, with little protection from the elements! And the worst of it was the dozen or so Whiterun citizens who stood just outside the crude fence, shouting "Skyrim is for the Nords!" over and over, all while pelting the camp with tomatoes, mammoth dung, and anything else easy to hand. He flexed his claws again, thinking the Khajiit killer, whoever he was, had chosen the wrong victims.

The camp, if one could call it that, occupied a low, boggy spot on the plains west of Whiterun. The rains of two days previous had left many puddles in the hollows between the few high spots the prisoners occupied. A split-rail fence had been hastily put up to keep the Khajiits in, but it was so flimsy that guards were stationed all the way around the perimeter. No wonder so few guards, and none in authority, were investigating the murders at Battle-Born Farm; they were all busy here.

There were no tents, only tarps strung between poles and rock outcrops. The prisoners J'zargo could see from outside the camp looked miserable, huddled together on a few blankets. The sun was shining, but a stiff breeze blew across the tundra. It felt cool even to J'zargo, dry and warmly clothed though he was; what must it be like for his country-folk, who'd been out in the elements for days now?

Only one prisoner showed any signs of resistance to his circumstances. The Khajiit known as M'aiq the Liar stood near the fence, trying to engage the Nord crowd with his often nonsensical statements, dodging the missiles flung in his direction. "Nords are so serious about beards," he said. "So many beards. M'aiq thinks they wish they had glorious manes like Khajiit."

"We'll take your mane, you miserable pussy-cat," a Nord yelled back.

"Yes, Nords' armor has lots of fur. This sometimes makes M'aiq nervous."

"As you should be. We know many ways to skin a cat."

"But M'aiq loves the people of Skyrim. Many interesting things they say to each other."

M'aiq was doing little good with his banter, but at least he was distracting the mob's attention from his more miserable comrades.

"J'zargo is right, captain," Deirdre said to the head of the hold guards. "The Khajiits shouldn't have to put up with this abuse along with everything else."

"But this is Skyrim. Nords have a right to assemble and speak their minds."

"They can do so from a spot beyond throwing range."

The captain looked at the queen, clearly wondering where his allegiances should lie. He looked to Lydia, who was staring darkly at her countrymen, one hand on her axe. Seeing little hope there, he turned to Ralof.

"Do as your queen says, or my troops will do the job for you. Your jarl has already agreed to free the Khajiits."

This was a stretch, J'zargo knew. But he was glad to see the captain order four guards to move the people a safe distance away. After a bit of arguing, they complied. Now the shouting became mere background noise, rather than an ear-splitting cacophony.

J'zargo chuckled. "At least we can be glad that Nord mob was out here, and not in the city as we marched through it, no?"

His comment brought little levity to the party. Lydia in particular looked distraught, continuing to stare darkly at the Nord mob. Then she turned to J'zargo and placed a hand on his shoulder. "J'zargo, my friend, I owe you an apology. And you as well, Brelyna. I'm sorry for every time I shouted 'Skyrim is for the Nords,' or even thought it. If I had known those words could lead to such inhumanity, I never would have uttered them."

J'zargo could hardly believe it, not just that she had called him friend, but that her lower lip trembled as she spoke. "J'zargo accepts this apology. Lydia is a good Nord."

"And I as well," said Brelyna. "Though there's really no need to apologize. All peoples have these prejudices to overcome. The Dunmer, and House Telvanni in particular, are certainly not lacking in cultural arrogance."

But Lydia seemed not to hear, gazing now at the camp. "Would you look at that," she said almost under her breath. "We have to do something."

"And we will," said Deirdre. "Come, let's enter and see how they're faring — though I believe we can guess."

J'zargo was glad to see Deirdre taking charge once more. He'd felt proud to witness her as she put that stupid Nord jarl in his place, especially after the treatment they'd received from the other one, Skald. In Elsweyr, The Mane would never have put up with such insubordination. Then again, The Mane was not elected by a jarlmoot, but born into the position. These Nords had strange customs.

The hold guards removed a rail from the crude fence to allow them through. The Royal Guards made to follow, but Deirdre held up her hand. "We need no protection, and I'd rather not intimidate the prisoners more than they already have been." She looked to Lydia, who nodded her assent. That was Deirdre, always so thoughtful.

And so they entered, the four companions along with the captain of the guard and Ralof and two of his lieutenants. The first Khajiit they met inside was M'aiq.

"M'aiq!" said Deirdre. "How do you fare, you old liar?"

So Deirdre had already had dealings with M'aiq in the past. Of course — she and Lydia had traveled the length and breadth of Skyrim hunting Alduin and his dragons. They would naturally have run into the wanderer during that time. For himself, J'zargo didn't have much use for his fellow Khajiit, and so stayed quiet as Deirdre talked with him.

"M'aiq hears many stories of war… yet few of them are true."

"Indeed, and many stories of Khajiits committing murders. Do you know if any of those are true?"

"M'aiq knows much, and tells some. M'aiq knows many things others do not."

"Hmmm, not very helpful."

"M'aiq has heard it's dangerous to be your friend."

"Is that so? Well, if you know nothing about these murders, can you at least tell me if Ri'saad is about? Or Kharjo?"

M'aiq nodded in the direction of a tarp in the center of camp. "Something strange happens to Khajiit when they arrive in Skyrim."

"Only when they're falsely imprisoned. But we'll fix that. Thank you, M'aiq, you've been quite, erm, helpful."

Up close, the conditions in the camp seemed even more dire than they had from afar. J'zargo's people sat in small groups, huddling together on blankets damp from the soggy ground. The tarps had done little to keep out the wet, and J'zargo could see that some of his country-folk had been put here while it was still raining. The ones who had been here the longest looked the most bedraggled and listless, staring into space as if dreaming they were anywhere else. The more recent arrivals seemed in better shape, their clothing not yet muddy and damp. These tried to rally their friends from their stupor, offering them what dry clothing they could, but it was little help.

J'zargo felt a growl growing inside him. He looked over at the guard captain who was accompanying them, and thought how easy it would be to take revenge on the brute for his part in this atrocity. Lydia, too, was glowering at him, her hand on her axe. Deirdre was just now asking him why the Khajiits hadn't been imprisoned in the cells beneath Dragonsreach, since there could only be a few dozen of them.

"We have many Nord prisoners," the captain replied, "folks who've angered Hrongar in some way or other. We wouldn't want them having to share a cell with the cat-people. Besides, a cold prisoner is a compliant prisoner." And a dead Nord is a good Nord, J'zargo thought.

It wasn't just his sympathy for his fellow Khajiits; he couldn't help thinking how this reflected on him. He was of a proud people, and he, the great J'zargo, among the proudest of them all. To see his own people humbled so — it must diminish his own greatness. He would not stand for it.

Before he could do anything rash, Brelyna placed a hand on his shoulder. She must have heard his low growling. "J'zargo, I know this must be awful, to see your country-folk treated this way. But trust to Deirdre; she will take care of them."

He looked over at her, her red eyes gazing at him with sympathy. Brelyna, always so sensible! He knew he had a tendency to carry things too far, to let his own greatness outshine lesser souls. It had often gotten him into trouble. But Brelyna kept him grounded, and helped him avoid the worst mistakes in this foreign land. It was one reason he loved her. That, and the riches she was likely to inherit from House Telvanni. It was equally likely to fall in love with a rich person as a poor one, no? And that being so, why not choose the richer?

They arrived at the tarp in the center of the camp, where the heads of the three caravans, Ri'saad, Ahkari, and Ma'dran, were grouped together. Ma'dran looked to be in the best shape, having been brought in most recently. He'd given his own warm cloak to Ri'saad, who sat dejected on the blanket, his fur still damp, and his eyes downcast. As the owner of the three caravans, and the closest thing to a leader the Khajiits in Skyrim had, he was the one to address Deirdre as they approached.

"Nord people have already done much to torment us. Does Nord queen come to trouble us further? And look, she brings a Khajiit with her. Another prisoner, perhaps."

J'zargo stepped forward. "No, Ri'saad. Deirdre is a friend to Khajiit. Ri'saad should listen to her, and accept her help."

Ahkari spoke up as well. "J'zargo speaks true. Deirdre and Lydia helped us fight off bandits last year. Without them, we might have lost all our goods, and maybe our lives."

"Ri'saad, Ahkari, all my Khajiit friends," said Deirdre. "I am sorry I couldn't keep the jarls from treating you this way. My only excuse is that I am still learning what it is to be queen. But I promise to do everything in my power to help you. I would release you this minute, but I think you'll agree the roads are not safe for Khajiits at the moment, judging by that mob. And we must retrieve your goods and wagons from Whiterun before you can set off."

Ri'saad gave a growl at this, but nodded in agreement.

"I can see how deplorable the conditions are here, and we will do all we can to improve them until your own tents can be retrieved. But tell us, how else have you fared? Have you all been fed? Who else is here? I am particularly curious to find Kharjo, who we met last year."

"It is as bad as it looks, and worse. Ri'saad's caravan was the first captured, as we were camped right outside Whiterun. Then it rained and everything was cold and wet. They brought M'aiq in soon after, but M'aiq is used to traveling alone on foot, with no tents and few luxuries. Then Ahkari's caravan and a few other lone Khajiit from Riften and Falkreath. And just this morning, Ma'dran's caravan. But in all that time, they've given us only stale rolls to eat and told us the puddles would serve us for drink. Our wagons, which they took from us, are filled with food and warm clothes, and our tents would keep us dry. If they had only left us these things, we would be comfortable, and we would share with M'aiq and the other loners. But why treat us this way, if not to torture us? And all because they say we are murderers. But we cannot all be murderers, and none of us was anywhere near these crimes when they happened."

J'zargo had grown increasingly angry through this recitation, and only Brelyna's restraining hand kept him from doing something rash. But he noticed Lydia's expression growing darker as Ri'saad spoke. Now she exploded. She turned to the captain of the guard, standing nearby.

"By the Nine, how can you treat people this way?" She grabbed his sash in one fist and began pushing him across the tundra, backing him up against a rock outcrop, all the while keeping one hand ready on her axe.

"No, Captain Ravenwood, I…"

"I'll show you, you milk-drinking son-of-a-horker. A true Nord doesn't treat defenseless people this way."

"But I was just following orders!"

"Orders! A true Nord knows there are some orders that must not be obeyed."

She was drawing her axe now. J'zargo didn't know what might have happened if Deirdre hadn't stepped up to her and placed a restraining hand on her arm, standing on tiptoe to say something in her ear. Lydia relented and let the captain go.

"Captain, here's an order that you will obey," Deirdre said. "I command you to retrieve the Khajiits' wagons and all their possessions and bring them here post-haste. And that includes any belongings that might have been left by the side of the road. While you and your guards are busy with that, my Royal Guards and Ralof's troops will handle security here."

The captain still trembled from his brush with Lydia's wrath. "Aye, my Queen, it will be done right away."

"Ralof, what can we do about providing our friends with more immediate provisions, in case Jarl Hrongar drags his feet?"

Ralof turned to his lieutenants and ordered them to bring a camp wagon up from the garrison, filling it with provisions, water, and firewood, as well as several army tents and bedrolls. "Leave it to the army," he said, turning back to them. "We'll have this camp up to snuff in no time."

Soon a detachment of troops who had been conducting exercises near the camp were headed off in the direction of the garrison. While they waited for the provisions to arrive, J'zargo and his friends circulated about the camp, trying to cheer the inhabitants. They'd brought the few possession they'd been able to carry away from Ahkari's camp, and now they returned them to their grateful owners. J'zargo removed the cape he always wore over his mage's robes and loaned it to a particularly wretched-looking Khajiit. Deirdre did the same with her mantle. When the recipient protested, she said, "Not to worry, it's mostly for show."

Finally they found Kharjo, one of the guards for Ahkari's caravan Deirdre and Lydia had met the previous fall. J'zargo didn't know him, but he was a strong warrior by all accounts. Right now it was hard to tell, the way he was hunkered under a thin blanket. He was wet and cold, no doubt, but he seemed more dejected than anything.

"Kharjo?" Deirdre said, kneeling nearby. "Do you remember us?"

Kharjo looked them over. "Ah, Deirdre Morningsong. And Lydia. Kharjo remembers. And he has heard great things about you both since then. Kharjo would say it is a pleasure to see you again, but…" He closed his eyes. "This one wishes he'd never met Ahkari and was still in prison back in Cyrodiil. At least there it was warm."

Deirdre looked up. "The camp wagon has arrived. Let's get you a hot drink."

"I'll stay with him," said Brelyna. Lydia didn't say anything, but she stayed behind as well.

J'zargo followed Deirdre to the camp wagon, more because it was difficult to look on a great warrior brought so low than to make himself useful. But it was the same with all the prisoners who'd been here the longest. In just a few days, all dignity had been stripped from them. Their minds could concentrate on nothing beyond the immediate needs of staying warm and staving off hunger. The Nords had reduced them to a state little better than the animals the Nords already thought they were. And the closer to the animals they became, the easier it was for the Nords to treat them that way. J'zargo welcomed the relief of standing near the fire and turning his thoughts from such sad contemplations.

In the end, he was glad to have accompanied Deirdre to the camp wagon: it gave him a chance to see a different side of the Nords, though one he hardly understood.

Seeing them approach his wagon, the cook gave a bow. "Pardon for not taking a knee, my Queen. I don't know if you remember me."

Deirdre peered at him for a moment. "Lars Stone-Kettle! From the Hjaalmarch Stormcloak camp. I remember how your broth revived us after our flight across the swamps."

"I was glad to help. Captain Ravenwood was in an awful state. But remember I told you, 'I used to be an adventurer like you. Then I took an arrow in the knee…' So, no kneeling, sad to say."

Deirdre laughed. "Not to worry. And I used to be an adventurer like you. Then they made me Queen!"

The cook guffawed and slapped his good knee. "Whoo, that was a good one, my Queen!"

These Nords and their silly sense of humor — J'zargo would never understand them.

They returned to Kharjo with a steaming mug of tea and a sweetroll. He received these gratefully, taking a long swallow of the one and a big bite of the other. "That's better," he said in a moment. "This place is cold, but Kharjo feels warmness from your presence."

"I'm glad you're feeling better," said Deirdre. "But listen, I don't know many of your fellow Khajiits well enough to ask them this. It's rather sensitive, and I hope you won't take it the wrong way."

"Kharjo still remembers the help you gave him and Ahkari. Ask anything you like."

"You must meet most of the Khajiits in Skyrim during your travels. Have you ever heard one of your countrymen speaking ill of the Nords, or of Skyrim?"

"No, why would Khajiit complain? We are allowed to trade here. Nords may not like us, but we just try to keep out of their way. And for Skyrim, Khajiits only complain about the weather."

"Hmm. How about any Khajiits traveling with a non-Khajiit, maybe in a wagon?"

"No. Kharjo has never seen such a thing in Skyrim. In Cyrodiil, yes, but never here. Khajiit keep to themselves."

"Ah, too bad," said Deirdre. "I feel we're so close to these killers, but we just need another clue." She stared at the blanket on which Kharjo sat, lost in thought for a moment. Then she looked back at him. "Well, tell us how you've fared otherwise."

Kharjo snorted. "You mean apart from being attacked by a strange Breton, then arrested by the Nords? Other than that, everything is perfect!"

"Wait, what do you mean you were attacked by a Breton?"

"Just that. Well, first he tried to poison us, then he attacked Kharjo when this one chased him." He looked at Deirdre then at J'zargo. "Kharjo thinks you are happy Kharjo was attacked."

J'zargo spoke up as Deirdre struggled to wipe the smile from her face. "Deirdre is only happy she is about to find the killer. And J'zargo is happy, too, for he was also wrongfully imprisoned for these crimes. When this one gets his hands on that Breton…"

"Now, let's not get ahead of ourselves. Kharjo, tell us everything. When and where did this happen?"

"It was the night before we were arrested."

"So that would be night before last."

"That is right. We were camped near the Weynon Stones. Early in the evening a Breton man went by…"

"Headed which way?"

"South and east. He was driving a wagon…"

"Pulled by a single horse?"

"Yes." Kharjo looked at her curiously. "Any other questions?"

"Did you happen to notice what the wagon carried?"

"Just a couple of crates, nearly as long as the wagon."

Deirdre groaned and gave her friends a dark look. "It's as I guessed, though I really didn't want to contemplate it." J'zargo gave a low growl. They all must have had the same thought, but none wanted to give it voice. "Then what happened?"

"It was after dinner. Most of the others had gone to bed. The kettle was near the fire to stay hot for making tea. It helps this one stay awake while on watch. At first, Kharjo didn't see anything, but he smelled something. Not Khajiit, and not an animal either, more human-like. But this one gave no sign anything was wrong. Then, how do you say, 'out of the corner of my eye'? Yes, Kharjo saw out of the corner of my eye the lid rise off the tea kettle, and a potion bottle hover over it, pouring a liquid into the hot water. Someone was trying to poison us!"

"Yes, that fits."

"Kharjo grabbed a torch and ran at the fire, but then heard footsteps running away into the forest. This one chased, always following the sound of footsteps. The Breton was sneaky, but not when he was running away. At last the invisibility spell or potion must have worn off, because there he was, the same Breton who'd passed our camp. 'Ha, Kharjo has you now!' this one yelled, and drew his sword. But then the Breton aimed a lightning spell at Kharjo."

He drew back a sleeve and showed them a long scar on his forearm. "This one is sad to say he dropped his sword. The Breton was coming back to finish Kharjo off, but then Ahkari and Dro'marash came running up, and the Breton fled."

The four were silent, staring at Kharjo.

Finally, J'zargo broke the silence. "My friend, this one thinks you were very lucky not to end up in one of the Breton's crates."

Kharjo still looked confused. "But why? What does it mean?"

"It means the Breton is our real killer, and the Khajiits are not truly responsible," said Deirdre. "The Breton is a necromancer and carries the bodies of dead Khajiits in his wagon. He resurrects them to kill his victims, or sometimes poisons the victims then has the thralls mutilate the bodies. All to make us think your people committed the murders."

"He must be a powerful necromancer," Brelyna put in, "for the bodies to last as long as they have, and to leave one body behind for us to examine. And it explains the strange groaning sounds people heard, and the Khajiit saying 'thank you' as he died. Sometimes the thrall's original spirit is still present, trapped inside the body, horrified by what the necromancer forces it to do." She stopped as she noticed J'zargo and her other friends gaping at her. "What? It pays to know something of necromancy, even if one doesn't practice the dark art."

"This is what J'zargo likes about Brelyna — always full of surprises!"

"If we're right, Kharjo," Deirdre said, "you would have been his next thrall. He lost one of his minions near Morthal, and he was looking to replace him. You're tall and powerful, just like the poor fellow the necromancer used to commit those first murders."

"But we still don't know why the killer would frame the Khajiits in the first place," Lydia said. "It all seems so senseless."

"And we won't know until we have our hands on the killer," Deirdre said. She stood up, clapping her hands. "And that will be any day now. Ralof!"

By the time Ralof walked over from the camp wagon where he'd been overseeing the doling out of provisions, quite a crowd had gathered around, including Ri'saad and Ahkari, clearly feeling better for having warm food in their bellies.

"My Khajiit friends, you and your people are exonerated!" The Khajiits gave a cheer. "Ralof, send squads of soldiers in every direction. Have them spread the word to every fortress and every village. They're to be on the lookout for a lone Breton driving a wagon with two long crates in back, pulled by a single horse with one broken shoe. But post no bills — we wouldn't want to alert our prey."

"Aye, my Queen, we'll catch the bastard."

"And while the search is on, I have a plan for you, my good Khajiits. Tomorrow, if you're amenable, we'll make our way to Helgen. Now tell me, how are your carpentry skills?"

She grinned at the mystified Khajiits, who all turned to J'zargo, as if he could explain his strange friend.

He could only shrug. "The people of Skyrim say many interesting things, but this one does not understand all of them."


	14. Chapter 14 - Exciting Day for the Watch

**# # Exciting Day at the Watchtower # #**

"What I wouldn't give for a mug of mead right about now," said Erik.

"The same as every day, right about now," replied Torsten. It was always the same sad song: more than an hour still to go on their watch, and Erik's mead would start calling to him.

Torsten was just thinking about asking for a new watch partner when he heard a wagon approaching, coming up the hill from the north. By the time he turned to get a look at it, it had disappeared behind the outcroppings of rock beneath the tower. Probably just another miner carrying ore up the hill.

Torsten was the only one _standing_ watch, again as usual. Erik was tipping back in a chair, making a game of balancing it on two legs. Typical. The lad never took his work seriously. Nordlings these days! Not like when Torsten had come up through the guard ranks. That was long ago, and he'd seen much since then. He'd been given this soft post to serve out his days until retirement.

And the work was easy, though you wouldn't know it to hear Erik talk. Relieve the afternoon shift at midnight, take turns keeping watch until six, then both were to stand watch until noon. Traffic on the road below them didn't pick up until mid-morning, and there wasn't much even then, just traders and farmers and miners, and the passenger wagons that ran between Riften and Windhelm. Then they were relieved at noon, and it was a short walk back to the village of Shor's Stone where they had their quarters. The whole afternoon would stretch before them to fill as they pleased, then they could get some shut-eye (or not, in Erik's case) before their next shift began all over again. The pay was good, and all you had to do was keep an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. The lad didn't know how good he had it.

"But it's so boring," Erik would moan when Torsten encouraged him to take his work more seriously.

It was true, the last time anything "interesting" had happened was seven months ago, back during the Civil War, when they'd been called out to protect Riften from the Imperials attacking over the Rift Pass. That had been a little _too_ interesting. They'd been outnumbered ten to one, and most of them were hold guards, green ones like Erik, not the hardened soldiers of the Imperial Army. Torsten thought for sure it was his day to walk the death road to Sovngarde, should he acquit himself well. That, or he'd end up rotting in some Imperial dungeon. Erik was too young and foolish even to be afraid.

But then the Dragonborn had swooped down on the back of her dragon, using her Shouts while the dragon roasted a goodly number of Imperials alive. Then she'd driven the invaders back over the pass with threats of more of the same. The Dragonborn had saved their lives, and now Torsten was happy to call her his queen.

"Come on, lad," he said, trying to sound encouraging. "Look lively. We've only got an hour left, and traffic's starting to pick up. Look, here comes a wagon now." The wagon was just coming into view again, moving slowly up the hill toward them.

"Yeah, sure, another farmer or miner, what difference does it make?"

"You never know, it could be that Breton we're supposed to look out for." Just that morning, a soldier had come down from Fort Greenwall, telling them to be on the lookout for a suspect in the awful murders in the western holds. They'd heard about those crimes, of course, but it all seemed far away. Nothing like that ever happened at this sleepy outpost. Still, he'd made sure the horses stabled next to the tower were ready to ride, just in case.

"Look, this one has a lone driver, just like the soldier said."

"Of course, don't they all?"

"And this one's pulled by a single horse."

That did seem unusual. The miners and farmers hereabouts all used two horses to get their heavy loads up the steep hills. Only the passenger carriages used a single horse. Even Erik was sitting up and looking out now.

"By Talos, that horse does seem to have a limp."

"And it's hard to tell from here," said Erik, so excited that his words rushed together, "but that fellow could be a Breton."

"Grab your bow and let's go!" shouted Torsten, taking up his own shield. "By the Nine, we have work to do!"

They hurtled down the stairs of the watchtower and emerged just as the wagon was drawing even with it. It was picking up speed, having reached level ground, but not so fast that they couldn't catch it on a run.

"Halt, in the name of the Jarl!" Torsten shouted, but the driver didn't seem to hear. "I said halt! Don't make us shoot you in the back." He nodded at Erik, who knocked an arrow and aimed at the driver's back, the wagon now having passed them.

Suddenly the fellow in the wagon twisted toward them and a ball of red light flashed from his hand, hitting Erik square in the chest. With no warning, Erik turned the bow on Torsten.

"Hey, watch that thing!" Torsten yelled. He got his shield up just in time to catch the arrow. "Have you lost your mind, lad?" He brandished his shield at the young fellow.

"I, I, didn't mean to!" Erik dropped his bow, drew his sword, and lunged at Torsten.

"Stop it, what's gotten into you?" Torsten easily blocked the lad's thrust.

"I don't know, I can't help myself!" The lad took another swing. "Just keep blocking! For Talos's sake, I don't want to hurt you!"

"Hah, with those sword skills?" For once he was happy for the lad's lack of diligence in training.

But he shouldn't make jests. The Breton was probably getting away. He couldn't even look over his shoulder to be sure, he was so busy blocking blows.

Erik struck his shield particularly hard, and Torsten responded out of reflex. Fortunately he was able to turn his sword just in time, instead whacking Erik on the helmet with the hilt.

"Ow! I said I can't help it!"

"I know, lad, but it's a melee, after all." Maybe the best thing would be to just knock him out. But difficult to do with the thick iron face-guards attached to their iron helms.

Finally the spell wore off and Erik lowered his weapon, panting. "I'm glad that's over."

"And be glad neither of us is dead." Torsten looked down the road, but the mage was long gone.

"Come on, to the horses!"

"But he'll just hex one of us again! If he hexes you, I'm done for!"

"We'll keep our distance. Let me think what to do while we give chase."

They caught sight of the wagon just as it turned onto the dirt track that bypassed Shor's Stone and Fort Greenwall. Erik was right, they couldn't do this alone. There was only one thing for it: ride like Oblivion to the fort and get help. With luck, they'd cut the wagon off before it rejoined the main road.

"Come on, lad!" Torsten dug his boots into his horse, and they dashed toward Shor's Stone.


	15. Chapter 15 - A Better Life

**AN: **I accidentally brought the wrong files with me on my current trip, so i had to go back to a rough draft for these next chapters. They might not be as polished as usual, but I'd rather keep posting. I'll update them if necessary when I get home.

* * *

**# # A Better Life # #**

Deirdre took a deep breath as the caravans and army wagons passed into the shade of the evergreen forest outside Riverwood, halfway to Helgen. The tangy scent of the pines and the sweet smell of jasmine and blue-bonnets created a heady mix. She took another breath and could feel the tensions and cares of the past weeks slipping away.

The shade was welcome after the heat of the open road, but she hadn't really minded the sun, dressed as she was in her lightest blouse and fine trousers. She'd left the dark, heavy mage's robes behind for this journey, since Ralof's troops had cleared the bandits out of Helgen the day before. And they'd be traveling with a whole regiment. What could happen? She relaxed and tried to enjoy the rare day of carefree travel.

The Khajiits were enjoying the day as well, basking in the warmth as they walked beside their wagons or rode horses borrowed from the army stables. The Nords, not so much; their pale skin burned quickly, and they were stewing inside their fur armor. Many were the _aahs_ of relief as they passed into the shade. Even Lydia, usually so stoic, had already complained of the heat, wishing aloud that they could stop for a dip in the White River dancing and babbling nearby. Deirdre had to laugh as J'zargo's ears pricked up and his tail swished back and forth at Lydia's suggestion. She was waiting for him to give a lustful purr and heartily endorse the idea, but Brelyna cut him off, pointing out how far they still had to go. Some things never changed.

"Alas, Brelyna's right," she said, smiling. "Skinny-dipping will have to wait for another day." Ralof, riding nearby, gave them all a puzzled expression.

As much as she would have liked to take a dip herself, she enjoyed simply being back in these woods where she'd spent so many careless hours. Those were the days when she'd worked for Arcadia. She could gather a backpack full of flowers and herbs and still have plenty of time left over to stare at the clouds, listen to the warbler's call, or just bask in the sun. Sometimes, if she managed to stay out too late to return to Whiterun at a reasonable hour, she'd spend the night in Riverwood with Ralof's sister, Gerdur, and his brother-in-law, Hod. Gerdur had been so kind to her after Helgen, and she could always count on finding a welcome in their modest house.

But these memories weren't the only reason she was feeling relaxed and happy on this day. She had much to content her, on two fronts: keeping the Khajiits safe and tracking down the murderer. The man-hunt was going well, and Deirdre felt they nearly had him. Alerts had been sent out in all directions, but a specific description of the murderer had done much to jog the guards' memories. The pair at the White River Bridge now remembered a lone Breton in a wagon crossing on the morning of the Battle-Born Farm murder. That led them to focus their efforts to the east. Deirdre was sure the necromancer would show himself again, having no reason to fear that the people were now alerted to one fitting his description. She was so satisfied with this progress, and confident in the army's ability to track him down, that she'd felt justified in taking two or three days off to get the Khajiits settled in their new home.

Convincing the Khajiits to take up her offer had been a bit trickier.

"You mean to send us to a forced labor camp?" Ri'saad said when she first brought up the idea.

"No, of course not! You are free to leave and go where you will this instant. I only wish I could guarantee your safety on the roads, but until we catch this Breton necromancer, that will be difficult. You've seen how these Nord mobs are, and then there's the danger posed to your people by the Breton himself. You'll be safe in Helgen, but if you insist on traveling the roads, I'll assign four soldiers to each of your caravans."

"And Nord soldiers are meant to keep watch on Khajiit, whether we travel or stay in Helgen, no?"

"No, not to keep watch on you, but to protect you and keep away anyone who wishes you harm. And not just Nord soldiers; Skyrim's army has many types. No Khajiits at the moment, but I hope to rectify that."

"But you expect us to work hard, no?"

"Of course! But you already work hard traveling across Skyrim on your trade routes. Now you'll be working to build your own homes out of the rubble of Helgen, and the soldiers will help you. In return, you'll help the soldiers rebuild the garrison that made up half the town. It will be a cooperative venture, to show what Khajiits and Nords can do when we work together."

"And Khajiit may live in these homes permanently, yes?"

"I'll write the deeds myself. The homes and shops will be yours until you choose to sell them. But when you consider the trade advantages of a base in Helgen, I think you'll want to stay. It could offer a whole new supply route from Cyrodiil for your caravans, being so near the Pale Pass. And then there's the traffic going back and forth over the pass, offering you an additional market. Maybe you'll even want to start offering lodging to travelers. And did I mention the contract to supply our garrison with food and sundries? I'm willing to offer you that as well, but only if you can provide competitive rates."

Ri'saad's eyes had grown bright at all the new sources of income. "It is true, this one's bones grow old and it would be good to stay in one place, maybe hire another Khajiit to take over the third caravan. But tell me, are no Nords willing to take advantage of these opportunities?"

"No. Sadly, Alduin wiped out most of Helgen's townsfolk, man, woman, and child. After that, the place had such a terrible reputation, no one wanted to move in and rebuild. And since the attack on Whiterun, most of our reconstruction efforts have been focused there. A few bandits may have moved in, but we'll clean them out before you arrive."

Ri'saad still looked doubtful; what else could she offer him?

He looked over at Kharjo. "What does Kharjo say? Is Deirdre Morningsong one to be trusted?"

Kharjo nodded. "She and Lydia went out of their way to help us, though they had little reason to. They didn't even ask for a reward."

"Good. And J'zargo? What is the opinion of His Greatness?"

Deirdre had to suppress a laugh at Ri'saad's sarcastic tone. So his own people had as little patience with his arrogance as she did. She felt vindicated somehow.

J'zargo ignored the sarcasm. "This one trusts Deirdre Morningsong with his life. Her word is as certain as the two moons' rising and setting."

So ninety-nine out of a hundred; she'd hoped for better.

Still, Ri'saad seemed convinced. "Very well, Ri'saad will discuss it with his people and see what they wish."

An hour later he returned to where Deirdre and her friends sat near the camp wagon. "It is decided. Khajiit will travel to Helgen and see if it is suitable. And if so, the bargain Deirdre Morningsong has offered is more than fair."

"Excellent! And if it turns out not to meet your needs, we can look at this as an extended camping trip. In a week or two, when we've captured this necromancer and proved the Khajiits' innocent for once and all, the roads should be safe for you again."

Hrongar had not been so agreeable, though her challenge of single combat had cowed him for the moment. He'd managed to delay them for a day by dragging his feet over returning the Khajiits possessions, but she considered that time well spent.

Now Deirdre looked around at the Khajiits traveling beside her as they approached Riverwood. How happy and hopeful they seemed! It was amazing what a hot meal, warm clothing, and shelter could do, along with the prospect of a more prosperous life.

For herself, she was looking forward to seeing Gerdur again, and also wondering how the townspeople would take to having Khajiits as their nearest neighbors, even though Helgen was half a day's ride away. Gerdur would see the sense in the proposal and help sway the other villagers.

Ralof was eager to see his sister as well, judging by the way he cantered ahead, crossing the bridge over the White River and passing through the town gates before turning into the mill Gerdur and Hod owned. By the time the head of the caravan had entered the town, Ralof was leading his sister back to greet them.

"Welcome, my queen," Gerdur said, going to one knee. "And Captain Ravenwood." She gave a curtsy.

Deirdre dismounted, exclaiming with mock severity, "Gerdur! I'll have none of this bowing and scraping from you, of all people." She gave Gerdur a hug. "Who knows where I'd be without you?"

At last Gerdur smiled and looked at her the way she used to, with the open gaze of a friend, not the downcast eyes of a subject. Once again, Deirdre cursed this damned pomp and ceremony that came between her and the people she loved.

"But what is happening?" Gerdur asked. "Where are you going? And with so many?" She gazed at the long line of wagons stretching back out of town.

Deirdre told her first of the new evidence exonerating the Khajiits, then explained the plans to rebuild Helgen. As she spoke, more of the townsfolk came out of their houses and shops to witness the procession, and Orgnar came out of the Sleeping Giant Inn to offer her and her companions mugs of mead. She was glad for the audience as well as the refreshment, as she wouldn't have to explain her decision twice and her throat was already dry.

Gerdur listened patiently until she was finished. "It seems wisely done. We'd heard about the murders, of course. It's better to know there's just one culprit, even if he uses these corpses to do the killing. And I'm glad you're so close on his tail." A few of the neighbors nodded. Gerdur looked over the Khajiits and their wagons. "It will be good to have Helgen settled again. The place has seemed haunted since the attack, and no one has wanted to travel that way. And I for one will appreciate a greater variety of goods on offer without having to go all the way in to Whiterun." Here she gave Lucan Valerius, the proprietor of Riverwood Traders, a disdainful look.

"I do hope the competition won't hamper your business too much, Lucan," Deirdre said.

"Eh, most travelers have been so long on the road that they just want to rush on to Whiterun. If they've had a chance to rest up in Helgen, maybe they'll feel leisurely enough to stop in our shop."

"Aye," said the innkeep. "An easier road makes for more travelers, and that makes for good business all around. Besides, your Grace, we are especially in your debt here in Riverwood, since you cleaned out Bleak Falls Barrow for us. The evil from that place spread for miles around, and folk here are a sight happier since you lifted the darkness."

At the mention of Bleakfalls Barrow, Ralof gave a shudder. As brave as he was in battle, draugr held a special terror for him, one that Deirdre would never let him live down. "What, you're not going to let a few draugr scare you off, are you?" she'd often tease him.

They were about to say their farewells when Deirdre remembered to ask where Hod was. "You just missed him on his way to Whiterun," said Gerdur. "You know he likes to go straight through the forest instead of around by the road. He had to see Hrongar's steward about a debt. We haven't been paid for the last two shipments of lumber for Dragonsreach."

"Not to worry, Gerdur," said Ralof. "We'll see you get paid, one way or the other."

With that they continued their journey along the White River, then up the winding trail to Helgen. When they arrived late in the day, Deirdre saw that the place was in better shape than she'd expected. The last she'd seen of it, the houses and shops had all been ablaze, their thatched roofs smashed, and the keep's four stone watchtowers pulverized by the flaming meteors the World Eater had somehow conjured. The sounds of destruction had continued as she and Ralof descended into the dungeons beneath the keep, barely avoiding the falling roof as it caved in behind them. She couldn't imagine much would be left of the place after such an assault.

Now she was surprised to see something of the wooden structures still standing, with support beams remaining upright amidst timbers scattered like jackstraws. And much of the four towers still remained, though with gaping holes that would take much patching.

The news was less good when the captain of the advance squad came out to greet them at what was left of the town's northern gate. He reported on the capture of the half-dozen bandits who'd been camped within the ruin before turning to the condition of the town itself. "Not much of the town-side can be salvaged," he said. "What beams are still standing are too charred to be trusted. The sites will have to be cleared for new buildings. The keep is in better shape. It will take time, but it can be repaired. But we can't even get into the dungeons, the stairs leading down into them are so choked with rubble."

"Let's leave those dark places sealed off forever, shall we?" said Deirdre. "When can work begin?"

"Right away, my Queen. But…" The captain looked at the ground and didn't go on.

"Spit it out, man," Ralof ordered.

"It's just that Jarl Dengeir of Falkreath arrived this afternoon and wants a word with you before we begin work." Perhaps she shouldn't have sent word to Falkreath about her plans. But it was better to get this confrontation over with now than have Dengeir do something rash behind her back. "He's inside what's left of the keep." The captain nodded toward the fortress. A group of guards in Falkreath's colors stood around in the bailey nervously eyeing the regular army soldiers. The bandits, hands bound, sat in a row against one wall.

Deirdre turned to the rest of the caravan. "Ri'saad, why don't you take your people and look over the town, along with the army's builders we brought with us. That should give you a good idea of what's to be done. J'zargo will go with you. The rest of us will go and deal with Dengeir."

They entered the bailey, where Ralof ordered the soldiers who had accompanied the caravan to wait. Then he led the way into the keep, followed by Deirdre, Lydia, and Brelyna. The stout door to the keep's tower was gone, replaced with a gaping hole wide enough to drive a wagon through. But Deirdre still recognized it as the circular room where she and Ralof had fled to escape Alduin's onslaught. It was here that she'd killed her first person, an Imperial soldier bent on carrying out the executions Alduin had interrupted. The first of too many. How innocent she'd been back then!

Dengeir was regarding them from across what was left of the chamber. Dispensing with ceremony, he ignored Deirdre. "Ralof of Riverwood. When we took back Falkreath from Imperial control, I didn't think it was to give Helgen to a bunch of Khajiits. And you support this?"

Ralof gave Deirdre a look that told her he would handle this, then walked over to confront the jarl. "As I remember it, you stayed huddled up in front of your hearth while we Stormcloaks battled through the winter snows to take the town. Then you emerged from your house just in time for Ulfric to install you in the jarl's seat."

"That's right, it was Ulfric, not you, Ralof. And where is he now? Surely he doesn't support this madness."

"Neither does he support rounding up innocent people," said Deirdre, going to stand next to Ralof.

"Bah, when did he become such a milk-drinker? And you — I supported you at the jarlmoot. You'd driven out the Thalmor, and for that we owed you a debt. But defending these damned Khajiits — can't you see they must be in league with the Thalmor? Elsweyr is allied to Summerset, after all. It's too dangerous to let any of them roam Skyrim."

"I see you didn't read the entire message I sent yesterday. The true culprit is a Breton, and the army is tracking him even now."

"A Breton! But of course! High Rock is Cyrodiil's last ally in the Empire. I've long questioned the loyalty of our Breton neighbors. Enemies and ears, both are everywhere!"

"And what would you have me do, round them all up, as you and the other jarls did the Khajiits?"

He eyed her for a moment. At least he wasn't so bold as to suggest she round up her own people. "No, I can see how you wouldn't support that. But how about bringing them all in for some tough questioning? That will smoke the rats out."

"The kind of tough questioning you have in mind took place right beneath our feet. Only it was the Imperials who did it. No, we won't be doing any such thing. As for who is behind the attacks and what their motives are, we could concoct plausible theories all day. But we'll only know for sure when we capture this Breton and get his story. Now, we have a town to rebuild."

"About that… what makes you think you can walk into my hold and take over an entire town?"

"The fact that I am your queen, first of all. And the fact that you've done nothing to rebuild Helgen in nearly a year, with the fine weather for building nearly half over. Then there are the bandits you've let overrun the place. Need I go on?"

"But our hold treasury depends on the taxes and trade from this town."

"The Khajiits will pay the same taxes as anyone else. You can consider any other lost revenues as reparations for false imprisonment. I know you weren't the leader in this little rebellion, but were egged on by Skald and Hrongar. You could turn to them to make you whole. Or perhaps you should just be content with the greater flow of trade that will soon come through your hold."

Dengeir seemed to consider this. As Deirdre awaited his answer, an army messenger ran in from the bailey. He knelt before Deirdre and held out a message. "For you, my Queen. They've found the killer!"

She tore the message from his grasp and read it before looking around at her friends with a grim smile. "They've got him holed up in Forelhost."

"Forelhost!" Ralof shivered. The place was one of the few Nordic tombs she and Lydia had neglected to visit in their search for word walls. It had a dire reputation as the home of one of the fearsome dragon priests.

"Not to worry, my friend," Deirdre said, placing a hand on Ralof's shoulder. "You're needed here."

Ralof put his shoulders back. She could see no hint of fear in his eyes. "No, lass. If you're going to Forelhost, it's your general's duty to stand beside you. You'll not leave me behind to manage a construction project."

"The project might take more management than I thought." Deirdre tilted her head slightly toward Dengeir, hoping the jarl didn't notice.

"My lieutenants will handle whatever… problems may arise."

"I'm glad you two finally have that sorted out," Lydia said. Then she clapped her hands together and gave a hoot. "Deathlords and dragon priests, my favorite! What are we waiting for?"


	16. Chapter 16 - Forelhost

**# # Forelhost # #**

"Would you look at that," Lydia said, gazing up at the soaring buttresses of Forelhost. These Nord tombs always filled her with admiration for the ancients who'd created them, and a grim anticipation to see what was inside.

They'd ridden hard for two days to get here, crossing the pass south of the Throat of the World, then following the shores of Lake Honrich to reach Riften. There, the captain of the hold guards told how two of his men had confronted the lone mage near the village of Shor's Stone, only to be driven back by his fury spells, which turned them to fighting each other.

After that, they'd enlisted help from Fort Greenwall and given chase with a squad of soldiers on horseback. They kept their distance as the mage fled into the rocky country east of Riften, abandoning his wagon. Here the guards related a grim story. From a distance, they saw the mage pry the lid off one of the crates in the back of his wagon and cast a spell. Then a Khajiit had risen from the crate and the two had fled south on foot. The guards had tracked them up the winding road to the level porch in front of Forelhost where Deirdre and her party now stood. The guards hadn't actually seen the mage enter, but they'd found the door standing open a crack. Since then they'd kept constant watch on both entrances to the place.

Now, gazing up at the tomb, Ralof gave a shudder. "Yeah, look at that. How do we know he's even in there?"

Lydia looked around at the steep cliffs on all sides. "He'd have to be able to levitate to get off this mountain without taking the road, and the guards have kept constant watch."

Deirdre looked grimly at the doors to the tomb. "It's time to prepare ourselves." She dismounted and the party did likewise.

Lydia could already feel the keen anticipation of battle coming on. Every sense seemed heightened. She relished the clank of her armor as she dismounted, the smell of sharpening oil that rose from her axe as she drew it from its scabbard. The sky was a piercing blue at this elevation, with just a few clouds here and there. She breathed in, and the air was sharp and sweet in her lungs. Every sensation felt exquisitely precious on a day that might be her last. Overhead, a hawk shrieked, and it was like the battle cry of her own soul.

She looked over at Deirdre, and could tell that she felt it too. This is what they were made for, to face whatever dangers together, head-on, not shrinking from them behind castle walls; to fight together as one, like the well-oiled fighting machine they'd become while battling dragons and draugr.

But then a bit of the fear she'd been feeling these past months crept in. There'd been no time to return to Whiterun for Deirdre's arch-mage's robes or the countless other items she usually brought with her on such a foray. She remained clad in the fine trousers and embroidered blouse she'd worn to Helgen, with a cloak borrowed from Brelyna thrown over it, the varied pockets of which she was now stuffing with potions from her saddlebags. She'd have no armor, as usual, but now she'd be without the magical boost of her mage's robes as well.

Lydia pushed these worries aside. Deirdre, the Dragonborn, was favored by Akatosh. With such protection, nothing could happen to her that Akatosh did not intend; and if Akatosh intended Deirdre's death, Lydia could do nothing about it, save dying at her side. She had always clung to this thought, even at their darkest moments, while battling the two dragons on the ramparts of Castle Dour, and while locked in the Aldmeri Embassy's torture chamber. Protected by Akatosh's favor, and by Lydia's love, Deirdre could not die. And if death did take them, it could not truly separate them; they would simply walk the death road together, hand in hand, until they reached the hallowed halls of Sovngarde. And then let Tsun fear Lydia's axe and Deirdre's Voice, and let Shor hope his mead barrels were well-filled!

Her own gear ready, she surveyed the rest of the party. Half of the Royal Guard had accompanied them, eight in all, standing at the ready next to their mounts. Brelyna and J'zargo looked set as well, talking in low tones off to one side. It seemed their relationship had only deepened on the ride here. J'zargo seemed more considerate and less boastful, and Brelyna was responding to the change. Perhaps it was the quietly confident Kharjo rubbing off on his fellow Khajiit.

Inviting Kharjo along had been a last-minute brainstorm of Deirdre's. He'd gladly said yes when she asked if he'd like to have revenge on the mage who tried to poison and enthrall him. Now he sat nearby, sharpening his claws on a stone.

Ralof looked ready as well, though not eager. He stood before the great doors of Forelhost muttering to himself, his skin a bit ashen. Lydia went over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I know how you feel. I felt much the same the first time I entered a tomb of the ancients. But it's not so bad, I promise. They're only our ancestors, after all."

"Our ancestors, yes, but their eyes blaze with a savage blue light! I've heard the stories!" He shivered.

"The trick is, never look in their eyes. Aim for their necks. They can't get back up if we lop off their heads."

Deirdre came over, shouldering her bow. She seemed as ready as she could be. "I'm more worried about the mage and his thrall."

"All in a day's work, my queen," Lydia said.

"And are you ready, my friend?" Deirdre said, putting a hand on Ralof's arm. At least she'd left behind the teasing. This was not the time.

Ralof drew himself to his full height and set his face. "I'll show these draugr Ralof of Riverwood is no coward."

"And deathlords, don't forget," said Lydia before she could catch herself. So much for no teasing. But black humor was always her way.

"Yes, and deathlords and dragon priests and whatever else this place has in store."

"Then it looks like we're ready," Deirdre said. The rest of the party gathered around. "Friends, it's time to do the job we came for — catch this murderer and take him alive."

"Hear, hear!" shouted the soldiers.

"Now, we don't know what's inside, but a Nord tomb can be a cramped and crowded place. Too many companions only invites accidents and confusion."

Howls of protest rose up on all sides. Everyone wanted to take part in the final chase.

Deirdre went on. "And having a large force will do no good, if the mage uses his fury spells to turn half those forces on the other."

After much discussion, the party was reduced to eight: Deirdre and Lydia; Brelyna and J'zargo, both of whom could resist the mage's fury spells; Kharjo and Ralof, neither of whom would be left behind after coming so far; and two of the Royal Guards, Svari and Garrold.

"Lydia will lead us," said Deirdre. Lydia looked over to Ralof, checking how he took this. When Deirdre promoted him to the rank of general, she insisted that the two of them would have equal authority. She'd even wanted to make Lydia a general as well, but Lydia had refused; commanders of guards always had the rank of captain. And now a captain would lead a general. It felt strange.

It didn't seem to bother Ralof, however. "Aye, it only makes sense," he said. "You two have all the experience in these crypts."

The guards opened the massive doors, and Lydia led the way inside. The large entrance hall was empty, as was the hall beyond. The wide steps leading from the hall were blocked with rubble.

"What happened here?" Brelyna wondered.

"A mystery that will have to wait for another time," said Deirdre.

"Come, this way," Lydia said, stepping into just the type of narrow passaged they'd feared. "Svari, Garrold, you two bring up the rear. And everyone, watch out for pressure plates or other traps."

The place was much like the other ancient strongholds and crypts she and Deirdre had explored: built from carven stone, fraught with traps of many types, with here and there the iconic dragon images the cultists used in their worship. Save one thing: the complete lack of undead. At first this didn't seem so strange as they traversed what had been the common areas of the stronghold, a worship chamber and sleeping quarters. But then they entered the crypts and found all the sarcophagi and other resting places of the dead abandoned.

"So this is a Nord crypt, eh?" said Ralof. "Not so scary after all."

"I've never seen one without draugr," said Deirdre. "It's as if they all got up and went somewhere."

"That's what I'm afraid of," said Lydia. Draugr scourges and deathlords she could handle, but only a few at a time; what if they were gathering their forces? She didn't like the odds. But in all their delving, they'd never known the undead to work together in a coordinated fashion. Her fingers itched to sink her axe into rock-hard draugr flesh, but all this waiting to encounter the enemy was frustrating.

So too was the pace at which they were forced to travel, while she or Deirdre pointed out the traps for the others. The pair of them would have made quick work of the place by themselves, especially with no enemies to fight. She had to be careful that her impatience with the others didn't make her hasty herself.

They continued on, bypassing traps of fire, spikes, and swinging blades, and also many urns and chests, no doubt containing valuable loot.

"Ancient Nords left treasure for us, no?" said J'zargo. "This one thinks we should not leave it lying around."

"We're here to catch a murderer, J'zargo," said Brelyna, "not make ourselves rich. And it's not lying around; it was buried with the dead to honor them, and likely carries with it a curse on anyone so foolish as to steal it."

"But the dead have all departed. Draugr should not be so careless with their treasure."

"We don't have time for treasure, but we'd better take this," Lydia said, removing a large brass key from a shelf. A short time later, she was proved right when they reached a circular staircase blocked by a locked gate. Lydia tried the key, and it opened.

At the bottom of the stairs they found another obstacle — a descending tunnel nearly filled with water.

"I wonder how deep that is?" said Brelyna.

"There's only one way to find out," Lydia replied. "J'zargo, it looks like you're getting your wish for a swim."

"Lydia misunderstands J'zargo. This one hates swimming; he only likes to watch."

"You'll have to swim whether you like it or not."

J'zargo sniffed. "And will there be skin-dipping?"

"What, and leave our armor behind? That would be foolish. Come, in you go."

J'zargo wrinkled his nose as he waded into the chest-deep water and the rest followed. "It will take long for J'zargo's fur to dry."

Lydia gave a snort. "Try swimming in steel armor sometime." She just hoped the water wouldn't go over their heads.

"It's true," said Kharjo from behind, "Khajiit don't like to go in water. But if it's what we must do to catch this Breton, then Kharjo will do it."

Unfortunately for Lydia and the others wearing armor, they did come to a section where the water completely filled the passage.

"I'll explore it and see how far it goes," Deirdre said. "I'm the better dressed for it."

"Deirdre, no," Brelyna said. "What if the mage is waiting on the other side? Why don't I go?"

"And you in those heave mage's robes, and everyone else in heavy armor? I'm better dressed for it today."

More delay! Had it just been the two of them, there was no question that Lydia would have gone first.

"I'll go," said Ralof, putting a hand on Lydia's arm. "My armor's lighter, and nor do I have clinging cloaks or mage's robes."

"But what if there are draugr on the other side?" Lydia asked. "Or the mage?"

"Then they'll feel my axe."

Ralof disappeared into the water and was back by the time Lydia had her helmet back in place. "Come, it's not too far before the passage opens up and we can wade again."

He plunged back in and Lydia followed. In a short time they were all through the passage, the mages swimming and the warriors walking on the floor while using their hands on the walls to push or pull themselves along.

The small chamber they now entered contained a small table and shelves filled with potion bottles. Deirdre opened one and sniffed at it. "Poison."

"Do you think the mage left them here?" Brelyna asked.

"No, these vials seem ancient, they're so covered in dust. My guess is they belonged to the cultists."

"But the mage must have taken a few, judging by these clean spots amid all the dust," Ralof said.

Through another door, they came to a narrow passage where Lydia called for a halt. Strange noises came from a chamber up ahead. It sounded like many people groaning, and the shuffle of many feet.

"I know those sounds," Lydia said.

Beside her, Deirdre nodded. "The mage has enthralled the draugr and gathered them here."

Lydia turned to look at the others. Ralof seemed a bit wan, but had his axe at the ready. Brelyna was quaffing some sort of potion, probably a magicka booster. Kharjo and the guards looked as ready as they could be. But where was J'zargo?

A yelp came form an alcove back along the passage, and J'zargo leapt back, holding his arm where an arrow protruded from his sleeve.

Brelyna rushed to him. "J'zargo, are you all right?"

"Just a nick," he said sheepishly. He pulled the arrow free from where it dangled loosely from his sleeve.

"What happened?" Lydia asked, going back to investigate. Then she saw the treasure chest sitting in the alcove and the murder holes in the wall next to it. Brelyna saw it at the same time and smacked J'zargo in his wounded arm. "Silly Khajiit! We told you to leave the treasure alone! We can only hope that arrow wasn't poisoned."

"You said we had no time for treasure. But everyone had stopped to prepare for whatever is in the next room. J'zargo only thought to prepare himself with potions or magical rings that might be in the chest."

"And you had no hope of finding gold as well? I'll believe that when the draugr lay down their arms and make us tea."

"It's a wonder they haven't attacked already, with the racket we're making," Deirdre said. "Now, are we ready to face whatever is around that corner?"

"Aye said Lydia in concert with Ralof and the others. "I'll take the lead."

"And I'll join you," said Ralof.

"And this one as well," said Kharjo.

"We can't all fit through the door at once. No, I want Svari and Garrold up front with me. We'll form a shield wall as best we can with three. Ralof, Kharjo, you dash in to strike blows when we create an opening. Mages, stay back and use whatever destruction spells seem best. And everyone, for Talos's sake, make sure not to step in front of Deirdre when she's getting ready to Shout."

With the plan set, Lydia led the way to a short passage on the right leading to an open doorway. The chamber beyond looked to be a large dining hall. It was as bad as Lydia had expected, and worse. Dozens of draugr, several scourges, and a deathlord stood around the hall and on top of the long dining tables stretching the length of the chamber. But here and there among them stood ghostly apparitions of warriors and mages.

"Who are they?" Lydia asked no one in particular. Their presence had no effect on the undead, who made no move to attack, but milled about as if awaiting orders.

"Those are the ghosts of the Dragon Cultists who made a last stand here thousands of years ago. I'll wager you never expected them, Dragonborn."

The voice came from on high, and to their right. The Breton mage had taken a position on a gallery overlooking the dining hall, flanked by two draugr archers, one of the ghosts, and his Khajiit thrall.

"This place is famous among practitioners of silent death, such as myself," the Breton went on. "The cultists blockaded themselves in the depths of the stronghold and poisoned themselves rather than surrender to High King Harald's forces knocking at their doorstep. Fitting, isn't it, that I should also make my last stand here?"

"Thank you for that history lesson," said Deirdre. "But we have more immediate concerns. Namely, to arrest you for the murders of eight citizens of Skyrim, and attempted murder on Kharjo of Elsweyr. Now, will you give yourself up, or do we have to come get you?"

"Give up? Why, certainly! I assembled this undead army for no other reason than to surrender at your first appearance. But tell me, who do you think I've killed? Everyone knows the Khajiits were the culprits. I'm surprised you've brought two of the beasts with you instead of keeping them locked in cages where they belong."

In a flash, Kharjo had knocked an arrow to his bow and aimed it at the Breton's heart. "By the two moons, Breton will not slander Khajiit in this way."

The archers on the gallery aimed their weapons and a rattling of swords came from all around.

Lydia put a hand on Kharjo's arm. "Let Deirdre handle this."

"Tell me, Breton," Deirdre went on, "what is your name? If you're going to force us to kill you, I'd rather know it."

"In ordinary circumstances, I'd never reveal my identity while on a mission. But seeing how only one of us is likely to leave here alive, I might as well tell you. I am Damien of Wayrest."

"Well, Damien of Wayrest, you should know that you're not the only alchemist in Skyrim. Your use of poison to kill or weaken your victims was plain to me from the start. Perhaps you wanted to give your Khajiit thralls an advantage, but it really was quite careless."

"Well done, Dragonborn. But tell me, do the mass of Skyrim's people believe your little theory? Or do they trust the evidence right before them, that the Khajiits are vicious animals who can't be trusted? When I left Whiterun, they were already locking them up."

Deirdre said nothing.

"You bastard!" Lydia yelled. "You'll feel my axe when we catch up to you." All of this talking, what good did it do? She was ready to fight.

"Ah yes, that's what I like to hear, the wit and subtlety for which you Nords are famous. But something is missing. No 'Skyrim is for the Nords!;? No 'We'll make Skyrim great again when we've driven you from our shores?' You disappoint me."

During his speech, Lydia had drawn her own bow. "Kharjo!" she yelled, and they loosed their arrows at the same instant.

Unfortunately, the Khajiit thrall had time to step in front of his master. The arrows pierced him square in the chest. "Thank you," he murmured as he toppled over the balcony onto the floor below.

The Breton gave a bitter laugh. "See? You're like children, so easy to manipulate. The jarls of Skyrim locking up all the Khajiits at the first sign of trouble was a simple thing to predict. As was your queen's response in coming to the defense of the helpless and downtrodden outlanders. The province must be ready to come apart at the seams by now."

"Who sent you, Damien?" Deirdre demanded.

"I never betray my employers. Goes against my professional code. But your Breton mother must have passed on some of her smarts. I think you can figure it out."

"The damned Thalmor," Lydia growled, knocking another arrow. "That's as good as a confession!"

Deirdre pushed her bow aside. "No, he needs to confess it himself. Now, will you come peacefully?"

"You really are quite full of yourself, aren't you, even when facing an army of undead. More than a hundred are waiting for you in the halls leading to this gallery."

"Deirdre," said Brelyna, "we don't have to fight through all these draugr. He can't have many provisions. We could retreat and starve him out."

The Breton laughed again. "Did I neglect to tell you that the leader of these cultists was a dragon priest known as Rahgot? Very powerful, by all accounts. I was about to resurrect and enthrall him when you interrupted. So, by all means, go wait for us on the porch. With him and his minions, we'll sweep through you like the wind through dead leaves on a blustery fall day. Then I can escape across the border to Cyrodiil, as I intended all along."

Enough of this talk, Lydia thought. "What are we waiting for, let's get him!"

"Very well, since your lovely wife seems so eager for battle…" The Breton launched a spell in their direction, then turned and disappeared from the gallery. Brelyna easily fended off the spell with her own ward, but instantly the undead army was upon them.

Lydia barely had time to drop her bow and get her shield in position, standing shoulder-to-shoulder between Svari and Garrold. The onslaught of draugr wielding swords and axes crashed into them, but their shields held and the line did not break. On either side, Ralof and Kharjo traded blows with enemies who slipped around the sides of the shield wall. Brelyna and J'zargo sprayed lightning and flame spells around the room.

"What did I tell you, Ralof?" Lydia shouted. "Just like regular soldiers, am I right?" Already a good pile of draugr had fallen before him.

"Aye, but their flesh is like rock!"

"We'll both need new weapons after this!" She gave the signal and her shield-mates opened gaps in the wall just long enough to lash out with sword and axe. At last, her axe tasted draugr flesh once more! How long had it been since she'd swung it in anger? She truly could not remember.

An arrow clattered off the top of Lydia's shield. "Deirdre, those archers on the gallery!"

Deirdre had been concentrating on the archers and mages standing atop the tables, using her own bow quite effectively. Now she turned a spell of mayhem on the gallery archers. She was the only mage among them whose Illusion magic was strong enough to work on the undead. Lydia did wonder whether her magic would also have the strength to overcome the Breton's resurrection spells. When the archers turned on each other and on the mage next to them, she regretted doubting her.

The onslaught against their shields abated. Peeking over, Lydia saw the common draugr giving way for a draugr scourge. "Brace yourselves!" she shouted and ducked back behind the shield.

"_Fus!_" shouted the scourge. The shield wall held, though the partial Unrelenting Force shout pushed them back into their companions.

"Deirdre!"

"I have him!" Deirdre ran in front of their shield wall. Lydia felt no fear for her safety; they'd done this dance a thousand times. "_Fus-Ro!_" Deirdre shouted. Nearby draugr went flying, and the scourge was forced to one knee, his head bent low. The only surprise was when Ralof advanced hard on Deirdre's Shout as if they'd planned it, taking off the scourge's head with one swift blow.

Ralof and Deirdre fell back, but before they could get behind the shield wall, a low, dry cackle came from the end of the hall beneath the gallery. The deathlord stepped out from among the countless draugr surrounding him, his eyes blazing an unearthly blue from the slits in his tall, horned helm. He carried a gigantic double-bladed axe, but did not raise it. Instead, he pointed it at Deirdre and laughed.

Now Lydia felt the first touches of dread. Not for what the deathlord might do to Deirdre, but for what other trickery might be afoot. Would these draugr even honor the ancient protocols of a duel by wielders of the Voice?

"Get back, my queen," she called. "Your _Thu'um_ hasn't had time to restore itself."

"I'll be fine! All of you, stay back, or he'll Shout you to smithereens. And be on the lookout for any treachery from the sides."

Everyone did as they were told, save Ralof, who stood resolutely by Deirdre's side. "I said I'd show these draugr Ralof of Riverwood is no coward."

"And you've shown that a dozen times over already. But this is no ordinary draugr. His _Thu'um_ is more powerful by far even than Ulfric's. Stand behind me, at least."

Ralof hesitated, but Deirdre stepped in front of him just as the deathlord was gathering his breath. She anchored herself firmly to the floor, her feet spread wide in a low fighter's stance.

_"Fus-Ro!_" shouted the deathlord, the shockwave rippling toward them, carrying with it the sound of a hundred summer thunder storms rolled into one.

But Deirdre was already drawing her own breath. Rather than radiating outward, the waves of the deathlord's shout twisted on themselves, swirling into a single point on the Dragonborn. She took it all in, and for one long moment, absolute silence filled the chamber. Then, Lydia knew not how for she never heard Deirdre Shout, the force was rippling back toward the deathlord and his companions, magnified ten-fold. A dozen draugr and their leader smashed into the wall beneath the gallery and fell in a crumpled heap. Many never got up again. The deathlord stirred, and Deirdre hit the others around him with a mayhem spell. They fell to fighting one another and their leader.

As if released from a spell, the enemies to the left and directly opposite returned to the fray. Deirdre and Ralof ducked behind the shield wall just in time. Lydia was about to breathe a sigh of relief, but now more draugr were pouring from the entrance to the room on their left.

"Is there no end to these undead?" J'zargo growled.

"We'll handle 'em!" said Ralof.

But now the ghosts of the dragon cultists were joining the battle. Whether this was a planned tactic, or the ghosts had simply wanted to observe how their corporeal allies would fare, Lydia knew not. What she did know was that arrows were now clanking off her shield, which was growing cold from all the frost spells hitting it. The ghosts might have been ethereal, but their weapons were very real. A frost spike hit her steel boot and her foot went instantly numb.

Brelyna cast a ward to shield them while J'zargo cast a flame atronach to distract their opponents. Kharjo and Ralof darted out now and then to attack, but they had to be wary.

"Deirdre, do your frenzy spells work on wraiths?" Lydia asked.

"A moment, I need to drink this magicka potion." So the lack of her arch-mage's robes was taking its toll. Still, all things considered, they were holding their own.

Just then, Svari shouted, "Look out! More archers above!"

But it was too late. With a hideous scream, Garrold fell. Without a thought or command, Lydia moved to her left and forward to cover him, Svari following her in lockstep, never letting a gap open between their shields. Ralof stepped up on her left, blocking and slashing with his axe, and Kharjo did the same on the right.

"Fall back!" Lydia shouted. "Get Garrold back to the passage!"

Then the world seemed to tilt beneath her feet. Suddenly she was back on the road between Whiterun and the White River Bridge, reforming the shield wall out of the last dozen warriors. How many friends had fallen already? Idolaf Battle-Born. Adrianne and Ulfberth. Thorald Gray-Mane. Farkas of the Companions.

"Drag them back behind the lines!" she yelled, but there was no time. Behind them the women and children were screaming, clustering around the bridge that was a thousand times too narrow. On and on the High Elves came, their golden armor streaked red with blood — the blood of her friends.

Now she was raising her axe over the body of the great elf she'd just slain, rallying her diminishing troops to one last stand. Now the arrow was piercing the gap between her pauldron and cuirass. A flesh wound, she thought, not deep; then the green fog settled over her eyes. Now Aela and Vilkas were standing over her, the last warriors left, preparing to defend her against the charging elves. Now Onmund was rushing past them, shouting, "For Lydia!" and "For Skyrim!", his lightning and flame spells brightening the dawning day. She closed her eyes for what she thought would be the last time.

Now she remembered. _That_ was the last time she'd raised her axe in anger. She tried to remember where she was, hoping for that same battle-rage to come over her. Nothing save that cursed poison arrow had been able to stop her that day. But her limbs were turning to water instead. Her knees felt weak and she couldn't keep her shield up much longer. "Fall back!" she called again, only it came out as a high-pitched wail. The sight of her dead friends' bodies, horribly mutilated, kept passing before her eyes. That, and Jarl Balgruuf ordering her from his side to lead the retreat. She should have died that day!

"Lydia, are you all right?" Ralof was still next to her, giving her a sidelong glance as he continued to parry and slash.

"I can't! The women and children! I cannot save them! Damn these elves! They're only little children!"

Her knees buckled. The shield wall was giving way.


	17. Chapter 17 - The Necromancer

**# # The Necromancer and the Dragon Priest # #**

Lydia, down on one knee, pushed back against the crush of draugr with what little strength she had left. Then someone was helping her up by the arm, while also pushing the shield back into place next to Svaldi's.

"This one can hold Lydia's shield. Lydia should go inside." She turned to gape at J'zargo; he looked back at her calmly, as if this really were just another day's work.

"But…"

"J'zargo will slash draugr with his claws if they get too close." He opened the shield a gap and clawed at the closest draugr to demonstrate.

"But Garrold…"

"Already inside the passage. Now go."

"J'zargo's right, Lydia," said Ralof. "We've got this."

She turned toward the doorway to find that it was only two steps away. Would her legs carry her even that far? But now Deirdre was emerging from within. "I've healed Garrold as best…" she began. Then she saw Lydia, and a look of shock came over her face that Lydia hoped never to see directed at herself again, not during battle.

"My love, what is it?" Deirdre said, putting an arm around her.

"Get her inside!" Ralof shouted.

Deirdre put a hand under her elbow and half-dragged her into the passage. Lydia staggered a few steps and fell to her hands and knees.

"Where are you hurt? I don't see any blood."

The sounds of the battle out in the dining hall intensified. Both J'zargo and Kharjo were hissing loudly now. The sound of claws on rock-like flesh grated on her ears. Brelyna's lightning and fire spells lit up the chamber. "Damn these draugr, is there no end to them?"

Where was her axe? She must have dropped it, though she couldn't imagine having done such a thing.

"I'm fine," she told Deirdre, struggling to get up. She had to get back out there.

"I can see you're _not_ fine. Stay here, I'll be right back."

"But I must…"

"No, you mustn't. Promise me you'll stay here."

Then Deirdre was gone. Lydia tried to rise, but couldn't. She was sworn to protect Deirdre, but now she couldn't move a limb. So much for dying at her side! She was a milk-drinker and a weakling. She felt bitter tears of shame and fear running down her cheeks and into her mouth, their salty taste an unfamiliar one.

The last ignominy came when Garrold limped over to her, recovered somewhat from his wound. "Captain Ravenwood," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. Are you well? What can I do for you?" A true Nord would never cry in front of her troops, but the tears just flowed all the faster.

From the dining hall she heard Deirdre shout. "_Hun-Kaal-Zoor!_" She didn't know that one, having never heard it before. A moment later, other voices echoed from the hall. A man's voice: "You will feel the thunder of my _Thu'um!_" A woman's: "My sword will taste your blood." And another man's: "It's glorious to battle once again in Tamriel!" Whoever they were, they all possessed the _Thu'um_. Soon Shouts were echoing around the dining hall, and even shaking the floor of the passage where she cowered.

A moment later, Deirdre and her companions returned to join her in the passageway. "Ralof, Kharjo, Svari, don't let anything through that door," Deirdre ordered. "J'zargo, get spells off when you can."

All her friends had retreated, yet the battle still raged. Lydia couldn't understand it.

"Who were those ancient warriors?" Brelyna asked Deirdre.

"Just some friends from Sovngarde. But there's no time to explain." Deirdre knelt beside her. "Can you sit up?" Together, Deirdre and Brelyna helped Lydia over to sit with her back against the wall of the passage. "Now, what is it? I still don't see any blood. And nothing looks broken. Here, let's get your helmet off at least."

Lydia kept her head down as Deirdre removed the helm.

"If I'm not mistaken," Brelyna said, "these aren't physical wounds."

Lydia could only shake her head.

"What then?" said Deirdre.

Brelyna was silent for a moment, but Lydia knew she knew. "Lydia, I heard you shout about the elves, and the women and children. You were back at the Retreat from Whiterun, weren't you?"

Lydia nodded, and gave a sob, her shoulders shaking. She'd never cried like this in her life.

"I relive that awful day every night in my dreams," Brelyna said, shivering.

"Yet I never do," Lydia managed to say.

"Oh, my love," Deirdre said, placing a hand under her chin, forcing Lydia to meet her eye. She had no strength to resist. "And you never talk about that day, though I've asked you time and again. All you would say when you recovered was that you should have died defending Balgruuf. Oh, if only I had been there, and not stuck at High Hrothgar!"

Seeing Deirdre's worried look only made her sobs come more quickly. Deirdre stroked her cheek, then gathered her in her arms, where she wept as she never had, not even as a baby.

They were right, of course. She'd taken all the fear, horror, and grief of that day and stuffed it down somewhere deep, covered it with a mask of Nord bravado. And not just Whiterun, but the suffering she'd endured in the Thalmor torture chamber. Yet all these months, fear had gripped her heart like a claw. She'd put it off as fear for Deirdre's life, but it was her own fear she was running from, she could see that now. And how much had she lost in keeping it at bay! She hadn't truly enjoyed any pleasure these last months, she was so constantly on edge. She couldn't even properly make love to her wife for fear of what might happen while they were so distracted. It was no way to live.

Her weeping abated, and Deirdre looked at her once more, stroking her helmet-mashed hair. "Promise me that when we return home, we'll talk of these things. You won't keep them bottled up inside you."

Lydia nodded, wiping at her eyes.

"Good. But right now, I need you to be strong."

"We need help over here!" Ralof called from the doorway. "Your friends are saying their farewells." He sounded stunned by the sight before him. "Felldir the Old, Gormlaith Golden-Hilt, Hakon-One-Eye! By the Nine, I thought never to meet the ancient heroes unless I earned my place in Sovngarde."

Deirdre turned back to Lydia. "You see, we can't do without you. I can cast a spell on you, but only if you want me to. Or you can stay here with Garrold."

"Over my dead body." She tried to grin, but her mouth wouldn't move that way just now.

"That's my lass," Deirdre said, and leaned over to kiss her. That nearly revived her by itself, but the Call to Arms spell did wonders.

She stood up, feeling renewed strength in her limbs, and renewed courage for battle. What was all that crying about, anyway? Lydia Ravenwood never cried. "This magical bravery really works," she said, "even if it is fake."

"No more of a fake than the usual Nord bluster," Brelyna said rather severely. Then she clapped her on the back. "Still, it's good to have the old Lydia Ravenwood back."

Ralof turned as they approached the doorway. "Good to see you're yourself again, Captain." He bent and retrieved her axe and shield from where they were leaning against the wall. "You might be needing these."

She took them, feeling sheepish. "It doesn't sound so bad out there."

"No, and we have Deirdre to thank. That Shout!" He gave a low whistle. "The ancient heroes made quick work of the ghost cultists. And even before that, those Mayhem and Hysteria spells took the pressure off while we retreated. Our lass is a wonder, but I expect you knew that."

"I did. But I didn't even know any of that was happening. Some hero I am."

"Forget it. It happens to everyone, even the mightiest. I bet even Hakon and Gormlaith had their moments. You should have seen me after Falkreath."

"Really?" she said

"Really?" Deirdre echoed.

He gave them both a wry grin. "I'll tell you about it someday. But right now we have a murderer to catch."

"We do. Would you mind taking the lead, General Ralof?"

"Don't mind if I do, Captain Ravenwood, your Grace. Turns out these draugr aren't so tough."

J'zargo hissed to get their attention. "Enough chit-chat! This one's magicka is running low."

They entered the dining hall to see just a dozen or so draugr of the common variety huddling in a corner where they'd been driven first by the ancient heroes, and then by J'zargo's flame spells, not to mention fear of Ralof's axe, Svari's sword, and Kharjo's mace. Lydia was almost disappointed when they made quick work of the undead warriors.

"Svari," Ralof ordered, "bring Garrold along the best you can. He should be able to walk, but slowly. We'll give chase to the mage."

Svari looked at Lydia for confirmation, and she gave her a nod. Ralof led the way into the next passage, followed closely by Kharjo, then Brelyna and J'zargo, and finally Deirdre and Lydia. It felt strange to be bringing up the rear, but it was a day of many strange new experiences. And it gave her a chance to watch her friends as Brelyna gave J'zargo a playful punch on the arm.

"What?" said J'zargo.

Brelyna said nothing, but Lydia thought she heard her give a sniff. Wash she crying? There'd already been too much crying, considering they were chasing a dangerous murderer through a Nord crypt.

Brelyna cuffed J'zargo again.

"What? Was this one not brave enough?"

"Foolish, more like," said Brelyna, still sniffling. "But no, I was going to say, what you did for Lydia was very selfless."

J'zargo didn't reply with a boast. He didn't reply at all. He was walking in front of Lydia, but to the right, so she had a good view of his face as he looked over at Brelyna. He wasn't even gloating, just gazing at her with love and contentment. Lydia raised an eyebrow at Deirdre, who returned a wink.

"Damnit, J'zargo," Brelyna said, "you're going to make me love you after all." Brelyna gave him another punch, and he put an arm around her shoulders. She settled her head on J'zargo's shoulder and they walked that way for a while. It was a lovely moment, Lydia thought.

But then again, teasing J'zargo was just too tempting. "Ah, a Khajiit in love. It warms this one's heart."

"Pffft!" he hissed.

Feeling a bit remorseful, she caught up to him and put an arm around his shoulders. "But kidding aside, that _was_ brave of you. I owe you my life." She dipped her head. "Thank you. And Brelyna is lucky to have you." J'zargo gave a little purr. "Now, don't go getting a big head. You're clearly the one trading up in this scenario." She winked at Brelyna.

J'zargo just gave her a pointy-toothed grin and slipped an arm around her waist. "Yes, this is what J'zargo likes, to walk with a female on either side." He gave a lascivious purr. Both of the females in question laughed, and neither smacked him.

"By the Nine," said Deirdre from behind them, "that's a sight I never thought to see."

Up ahead, Kharjo turned to Ralof. "Tell me, general, are all Nord expeditions like this one?"

Ralof pondered for a moment. "To tell you the truth, Kharjo, I fear we may have fallen into the Realm of Sheogorath. Otherwise, I can't explain any of this."

"Ah, that is what Kharjo suspected."

Ralof halted, listening. "But we'd better come back to Nirn. I think that's the mage we're hearing."

Over the cleared throats, nervous tittering, and exclamations of "Yes, general!" that followed Ralof's request, they could hear the mage swearing. "Damn this door, and damn these foolish Nordic engravings! What is that anyway! A dog? A wolf? A squirrel? Ah, yes, a fox. And now an owl and a snake."

They heard the sound of stone grating over stone. "He's opening the door to Rahgot's tomb!" Deirdre yelled, and dashed past her friends and around the corner.

"Hey, wait for us!" Lydia called, running after her, the rest following behind.

Turning the corner, she saw they were nearly too late. The door, a set of three overlapping stone disks, had already sunk halfway into the floor. The mage still had four draugr with him, and these he sent charging straight at Deirdre. Then he turned and leapt over the half-open door and disappeared beyond.

"_Wuld-Nah-Kest!_" Deirdre shouted, shooting past the surprised draugr, who barely managed to sidestep her in their surprise, and all the way through the door, where she was lost from sight.

Damn her recklessness! "After her!" Lydia shouted.

"Leave the draugr to J'zargo and me," said Brelyna, summoning a flame atronach. "You three follow Deirdre."

Lydia didn't need to be told twice. She dashed at the draugr, shoving two aside with her axe, and Ralof did the same with the others. Kharjo passed them both, despite his steel armor. They reached the end of the hall at last and plunged through the doorway to find Deirdre alone at the bottom of a staircase, panting hard, standing over a pile of ash. "He… summoned… a dremora."

"My queen," Lydia said, stamping her foot. "You could have been killed."

"Feh, only a lesser daedra," Deirdre replied with a grin.

"Now, where's this murderer?" Kharjo demanded, dashing up the steps. The rest followed, but Kharjo pulled farther ahead. Before they were halfway up, Lydia heard the distinctive thunk of a tomb cracking open. Reaching the top of the stairs, they saw Damien preparing to cast a spell, standing next to a large sarcophagus with its lid thrown back. A dragon priest was rising before him, floating in the air, its grimacing visage made yet grimmer by a heavy orichalcum mask.

Damien cast his spell, but gasped when it had no effect. He took a step backward, but too late. Rahgot slashed at his belly with the hooked end of his staff just as Kharjo reached altar and leapt at the Breton. There was a flash and the two rolled together into the far wall in a crumpled ball surrounded by blue light.

Reaching the altar, Deirdre shouted Marked for Death at Rahgot, and Lydia came in behind with a blow from her axe. The dragon priest hardly seemed to feel it, veering away to hover on one side of the sanctuary. That was the worst thing about these dragon priests. If they would only hold still!

"Hold him off while I check on Kharjo and Damien," Deirdre said.

"Aye, my Queen." Lydia stepped back from the wall of lightning Rahgot was spreading on the floor with his staff. Ralof got him from the other side with his axe, but again with little effect. The dragon priest's thick metal breast plate offered sure protection.

Four more cracking sounds came from all around them and four deathlords stepped out of their upright sarcophagi. "Is this all you've got?" Lydia laughed grimly, turning to face the nearest deathlord. Rahgot replied with his own dry cackle. Where was Deirdre? Was Kharjo all right? Lydia just knew she and Ralof could use some help.

Then Deirdre was at their side. "Kharjo's all right. He'll try to keep Damien alive."

"We could use some help with these deathlords, not to mention the damned dragon priest." She blocked a blow from the deathlord.

"I'll take care of these two." Deirdre cast a spell of frenzy at the two deathlords opposite, and they fell to fighting one another.

Now Brelyna and J'zargo came running up the steps and engaged the fourth deathlord, Brelyna casting another flame atronach. Ralof went to help them.

Now this was fighting! Slicing, spinning, blocking, slashing again, standing aside just in time to let Deirdre's spell find its target, then going in for the kill. There, one deathlord down. Much better than cowering behind a shield wall. She looked over at Deirdre and saw that she felt it too, her eyes alight with concentration, something like a smile on her lips. This is what they were made for, to roam Skyrim together, not be pent up in a castle drilling soldiers or going over ledgers. It was easy to see that Deirdre felt more alive than at any time during these past months in Castle Dour. And Lydia felt nearly the same, save for the shadow of what had happened back in the dining hall, and the strange feeling of Deirdre's magic still working on her.

Then a hiss came from behind them, and the smell of singed fur filled the chamber.

"Damnit," said Brelyna, "the dragon priest turned my atronach."

"Let's get him!" Deirdre said, and Lydia turned toward the dragon priest. "_Fus-Ro-Dah!_" Deirdre shouted, smashing Rahgot into the back wall of the crypt. Lydia followed up with a blow from her axe. Deirdre hit him with an ice spike. That ought to slow him down. Lydia hit him again.

Now Rahgot was up, and zooming to the other side of the chamber. He summoned his own flame atronach, which aimed fireballs at them. Deirdre cast a ward with one hand and gave Lydia a potion of fire resistance with the other.

"Two can play that game," Brelyna shouted. She cast a spell at the atronach, and now it was turning on Rahgot, enveloping him in flame. "But we could use some help over here!"

"Go," said Deirdre.

"But my queen…"

"I've got this." Deirdre cast a spell of incinerate at Rahgot.

Lydia raced over to help her three friends, who were now battling two deathlords at once. She took a swing at the one who looked the weakest, and he went to one knee. Ralof finished him with a mighty blow of his own axe. Together the four of them made quick work of the last deathlord. He tried Shouting "_Fus!_" at them, but he was so weak that it had little effect. He fell to the floor with a final groan and the four turned to help Deirdre.

But she needed little help. A final Shout drove Rahgot to his knees, and Deirdre went in with her sword for the killing blow. As did all Dragon Priests, he dissolved into a pile of ash.

"Never mind the loot, let's see to Damien," said Deirdre.

It was as bad as Lydia had feared. Rahgot's staff had opened Damien's belly, and now the poor fellow was trying to keep his insides on the inside, but failing terribly. Kharjo had caught part of the blow on his arm, or it might have been worse. The stench was awful, but one to which Lydia had become accustomed, along with the desperate look on the mage's face, common to all those who felt the life leaking out of them, with no way of keeping it in.

Still the mage had hope. "Heal me, and I'll tell you everything," he said to Deirdre.

"Alas, my most powerful healing spell will do no good with such a wound. I can do something for the pain, however." She reached in her cloak for a potion, but Lydia restrained her with a hand on her arm.

She knelt next to the Breton, showing him the sharp blade of her axe. "Soldiers moan for days on the battlefield with wounds such as yours. It's not long before they're begging for someone, anyone, to give them a quick death. I can give you that, if you talk. Or, we'll leave you here, just as you are, and you can hope the draugr wake up again and finish you off."

"Lydia," Deirdre said, but Lydia gave her a sharp look.

"Sometimes you're too kind-hearted, my love."

They waited a moment longer while Damien pondered his fate. Deirdre took the opportunity to heal Kharjo's wounded arm. Svari and Garrald came up just as she was finishing. "I'm glad you're here," she said. "You'll be the most impartial witness to the Breton's confession."

Lydia turned to the necromancer. "Well?"

"All right, I'll talk," he said through clenched teeth. "You were right, of course. The Thalmor hired me. Murder a few citizens, put the blame on the Khajiits. Stir up trouble, set the Nords against the minority." He paused to wince, then resumed. "Of course kind-hearted Deirdre Morningsong would have to step in, defying the will of the people, trampling the rights and duties of the jarls in her efforts to protect the poor, oppressed Khajiits. A right little rebellion you've got on your hands now, I'll wager. My work here is done. Too bad I couldn't make it back home."

"And the Khajiits you enthralled?" Deirdre asked. "Where did you find them? What are their names?"

"None of your concern. They came from outside Skyrim. I nabbed them in Jehanna just before crossing the border. Wanted them to be nice and fresh. As to names, I didn't ask."

"What do the Thalmor intend now? Do they mean to attack us while we're at each other's throats?"

"You think they tell me such things? No, I'm just a lowly assassin. But it stands to reason, a divided Skyrim works in their favor. If the jarls remove you from the throne, by whatever means, half the Thalmor's work is done. Now, I've told you all. You must fulfill your end of the bargain."

Deirdre looked to the two guards. "You heard all? You must be our witnesses." The guards both nodded.

Lydia stood up and gestured for the others to turn away if they wished. The Breton stretched out his neck to give her a better target.

It was over quickly. She did not look away.

Lydia Ravenwood never looked away.


	18. Chapter 18 - Skyrim Unity Tour

**# # Skyrim Unity Tour # #**

"It's hot," Lydia said, gazing wistfully down at the laughing waters of the White River.

"It is, my love," Deirdre said. She reined her horse to a halt, and her three friends did likewise, sitting four abreast across the road.

Seated on one end, Brelyna noticed Deirdre grinning mischievously at the rest of them, and couldn't help but be amused herself. They'd come to the point west of Valtheim Towers where the road rose away from the river. Down a little track along the banks was the hidden pool where she, J'zargo, and Onmund had come across Deirdre and Lydia back in the fall, sunning themselves after a swim, naked as the day they were born. That had been an awkward meeting.

Now that the queen's entourage had come to a halt, the rest of the procession was leaving them behind, snaking up the road ahead of them on the way to Whiterun. The combined entourages of three jarls made for an impressive display. Thus far on this tour of the eastern holds of the realm, Deirdre and her friends had ridden in the front of the procession. But this morning when preparing to leave Fort Amol, Deirdre and Lydia had dawdled unaccountably. Ralof and Kharjo had grown so impatient that they'd joined Ulfric's entourage, and the queen's party had to catch up to bring up the rear. Now Brelyna thought she knew why.

"You look like you're suffering in all that armor," Deirdre said to Lydia.

"Aye," Lydia said, though she grinned back at Deirdre, and she didn't look as if she were suffering any more than the Royal Guards all around them.

"Would you like to go for a dip?" Deirdre's eyes had taken on a positively daedra-like twinkle.

"As you will, my queen." Lydia tried to sound merely obedient, but she couldn't quite suppress a giggle.

"Would you like some company?" Brelyna asked, all innocence. Someone had to get the question in before J'zargo could speak up. Although come to think of it, J'zargo was remarkably quiet. He'd been this way all morning, riding next to her, lost in his own thoughts.

"Oh, no, I think we'll be fine on our own," Deirdre said, giving Brelyna a wink.

"But my captain," one of the guards spoke up. "Just the two of you, alone in the wilds? Are you sure it's safe?"

Lydia took mock offense. "The Dragonborn and the Hero of Whiterun? What could happen?"

The guards all gaped — clearly a carefree Captain Ravenwood was one they'd neither seen nor imagined.

"And besides," Lydia went on, giving Deirdre her own devilish grin, "the queen and I have some unfinished business down in that pool. Wait for us up by the old Stormcloak camp." The pair urged their horses down the track along the river, leaving the guards agog and Brelyna stifling a laugh. Much had changed since Forelhost, and this new, carefree Lydia was the best change of all. What a difference from the worried, ever-watchful Lydia who had greeted them on their arrival in Solitude! They had the last days' travels to thank for it.

The chief purpose of the queen's tour was to allow Deirdre to speak directly to the people, proclaiming the Khajiits' innocence and identifying the true murderer. But more than that, Deirdre hoped to convince her Nord subjects to put aside the hatreds and prejudices that had been so easily manipulated by the Thalmor and their agent. Brelyna doubted that such a thing was possible, but still she was sworn to help the queen in any way she could.

Yet Brelyna was more concerned about her other friend's mental state. Lydia was the rock they all depended on — not just Deirdre, but all of them, and indeed, the entire realm. The people looked up to their queen, no doubt, and would be forever grateful that she'd saved the world from destruction. But in the end Deirdre was a mage and the Dragonborn, both of which inspired more fear than love. It was Lydia, the true Nord, whom they could love with all their hearts. To see her nearly crumble in Forelhost had been a shock. Brelyna wondered how the Nords would react if they ever saw Lydia in such a state.

They'd emerged from Forelhost long after dark, then camped on the porch at its entrance. Perhaps it was the proximity to that dark place, but Lydia had awoken screaming in the middle of the night, and it took hours of Deirdre soothing her before she would go back to sleep. So it was a weary and bedraggled group that had arrived in Riften. Deirdre had managed, just barely, to convince Laila Law-Giver to support her as she spoke to the people, and to accompany them as they continued the tour.

Brelyna kept one eye on the crowd and the other on Lydia as the queen spoke. Lydia's downcast expression and shifting eyes were the opposite of inspiring, and the people remained unimpressed. The queen had got the killer and that was that. Thanks were due her, but no more. What if a Khajiit had taken the lead in capturing him? That was the least the cat-people could do after these weeks of fear. And what was all this talk of equality and brotherly love and compassion? So they'd been wrong about who the real killer was. Who could blame them for being too careful? If a few Khajiits had been wrongfully imprisoned, that was just the price of keeping the people safe. If they didn't like it, they could always leave Skyrim, and good riddance.

At least, those were the thoughts Brelyna imagined were going through the people's minds as she scanned their impassive, sometimes hostile faces. She was just glad they'd refrained from jeering or throwing rotten fruit.

After that, she'd helped Deirdre tighten the speech, making the appeals to the people's better selves more direct and less abstract. Not to mention showing them what was in it for them. She could see how easy it would be to rally the people against an external foe, especially one toward whom they already bore a grievance, whether real or imagined. That had been Ulfric's tactic during the Civil War, railing against the Thalmor and the ban on worshiping Talos. But when the foe was within their own hearts? Much harder, maybe impossible.

She'd continued to keep an eye on Lydia as they'd ridden north toward Windhelm, glad to see her and Deirdre spending much time together by themselves. She hoped they were talking over the events at Whiterun, or maybe even what had happened in the Aldmeri Embassy. That night, the camp was quiet and Lydia had no nightmares. And the following day, Lydia took time to ride next to Brelyna and J'zargo while Deirdre was busy with Jarl Laila.

At first they talked of little, how impressive the view was across the steaming pools near Bonestrewn Crest, and how nice it was to enjoy it without fear of dragon attack. Then Lydia grew somber.

"I never properly thanked you for protecting the children and elderly during the retreat," she said.

"Lydia Ravenwood is most welcome," said J'zargo.

"Yes," said Brelyna, "and I only regret we couldn't do more. But really, Lydia, without your leadership, we'd all have been slaughtered. It is we who are in your debt."

Lydia looked as if she couldn't quite believe this. "How do you cope with it?" she asked. "You must have seen the same awful sights I did. We all lost our closest friends."

"I'm not sure I really do cope with it. I dream of it often. At first I talked with Deirdre about it, and that helped somewhat. She wasn't there, but she's seen enough of death to understand. I tried talking to J'zargo here, but he was like you, never wanting to relive it."

"J'zargo kept his thoughts to himself. Perhaps this was a mistake, no?"

"I thought I'd seen enough of battle that nothing like that could bother me. How wrong could I be?"

"Perhaps true strength comes only from facing our memories, no matter how fearful or disturbing."

Lydia was quiet after that, lost in her thoughts, and J'zargo had ridden closer to Brelyna, reaching across to place a consoling hand on her shoulder.

In the days since, Brelyna had noticed a new side to Lydia. Thus far, she'd known just two aspects to her friend's personality: the usual bold, fearless Lydia who was ready to take on anything, and the Lydia who'd recovered from near death, doom-driven at not having done more to protect Balgruuf and to save Whiterun.

What she hadn't known was a Lydia alive to every emotion, especially those the Nords wrote off as the province of milk-drinkers. She'd catch her staring off into the forest they rode through, a distracted look on her face and a tear in the corner of her eye. But she also noticed her smiling more, taking delight in small things. In the past, Deirdre was always the one to exclaim in delight at a new display of wildflowers, leaping from her horse to gather a posy for Lydia, who would smile tolerantly at this enthusiasm for such a small, everyday thing. But now it was Lydia who first noticed any new flower, and asked Deirdre what its name was.

Most of all, she seemed less on edge and guarded than she'd been these past weeks. The ultimate display of this change came in Windhelm, at the feast after Deirdre's speech. The talk had gone better than the one in Riften, perhaps because Ulfric himself was now seen to be supporting her and her efforts. All those who retired to the great hall in the Palace of the Kings for the feast seemed in a good mood. Then Jorleif, Ulfric's steward, asked Lydia to tell the tale of the Battle of Whiterun. Brelyna was surprised when she said yes.

Some had never heard the tale before, and none had ever heard Lydia tell it. By the time she got to Balgruuf ordering her to take charge of the fleeing women, children, elderly, and wounded, her voice began to quaver. As she told of her friends and shield-brothers beginning to fall, tears began to fall as well, and not only hers. By the time she got to Onmund's self-sacrifice, she was openly weeping.

Through her own tears, Brelyna saw that there weren't many dry eyes around the long tables. Even Ulfric was dabbing at the corner of his eye as if some foreign object had gotten into it. So this was how the Nords would react to Lydia showing any sign of weakness! Perhaps she'd underestimated them.

Lydia looked up from where she'd been staring at her own lap, plainly expecting looks of disdain from her audience. Instead, the silence was broken only by a few sniffles. At last it was Ralof who got up and went around to her, standing next to her with one hand on her shoulder and the other raising high a mug of mead. "To Lydia! Few Nords have ever acted so bravely. Ysgramor would be proud." Lydia looked as if she couldn't believe it as shouts of approval rang through the hall.

And even more so when Ulfric stood for a second toast. "To the Hero of Whiterun, long may she swing an axe!" After that, Lydia could hardly finish her meal as the guests came around to offer her their praise and sympathy.

And so it was a different Lydia who arrived at Fort Amol at the head of a procession swelled not only by Ulfric's entourage, but also the smaller one of Jarl Korir of Winterhold, who had come down to show his support. This was the place where her friends had brought Lydia after the retreat, and where Deirdre and Arcadia had ministered to her wound. Brelyna saw her face grow darker at the memory as she dismounted and looked at the keep.

Then Lydia laughed and reached a hand out to Deirdre.

"What could you find funny about this place?" Deirdre asked. She seemed more affected than Lydia, who'd remained unconscious during most of that time.

"I just remembered, I was in such pain when I came to, and there you were, twisting the arrow in my shoulder. I thought you were torturing me for refusing to marry you."

"And you find that funny?"

"I do now," Lydia said.

"I only remember the horror of what I had to do to get that arrow out." Deirdre shuddered, and a tear rolled down her cheek.

"We all witnessed horror that day," Lydia said, wiping the tear away.

The commander of the fort offered the queen and her consort his quarters, not realizing it was the very room where the events they'd just been discussing had taken place.

"No," Deirdre said, "I believe we'll pitch our tent out here in the bailey."

They'd both seemed much brighter when they arose late the next morning, and in little hurry to get to Whiterun.

"Elisif won't arrive until mid-day, and I'd like to present a united front to Hrongar," Deirdre said, but it had sounded to Brelyna like an excuse.

And now here they were, just she and J'zargo and sixteen Royal Guards, Deirdre and Lydia having disappeared around a bend in the river, and the rest of the procession far ahead up the hill.

"Come on," she said, "we'd better catch the others before they pass the Stormcloak Camp." She was truly glad that her friends now felt enough at ease to take a quiet moment to themselves, yet it would make for some awkward explanations when they caught up to the jarls.

And what of J'zargo, riding so silently next to her? It was hard to believe he'd restrained himself from making some crass remark when the subject of a swim had come up. They continued to ride in silence for a few moments, Brelyna feeling J'zargo's pensive gaze upon her the entire time. She looked over at him, and he only smiled.

At last she couldn't stand it. "What, you didn't want to join our friends for a swim? You can admit it. It's better not to hide these things, though sometimes I wish you would."

J'zargo just looked at her calmly. "You know J'zargo does not like to swim, and besides, if this one ever did go skin-dipping, it would only be with Brelyna."

She couldn't respond, she was so awestruck.

They caught up to the jarls and then the entire party pulled off the road where a track broke off to the old Stormcloak camp.

"We might as well let the horses graze," said Brelyna, having explained the reason for Deirdre and Lydia's absence. "It could be a while."

"How long does a quick dip take?" Ulfric demanded.

"Oh, Lydia has all that complicated armor to remove," Brelyna lied, trying to keep a straight face.

Half an hour passed, all the while J'zargo persisted in his unusual silence, never making any crass remarks about what he must have guessed was going on down by the river.

Finally Ralof came over to them. "It's been quite a while. Are you sure we shouldn't be worried about them?"

How to put this? "Only if we're concerned they'll die of an excess of blissful pleasure."

"Oh," was all he could say, the light of realization dawning in his eyes. He returned to tending to his horse.

Apparently this last had been too much for J'zargo, because now he came over from where he'd been rummaging in his horse's saddlebags. She was sure he was going to say something about the blissful pleasure two females could have together, or ask if she'd ever experienced such pleasures. Or worse, suggest the pleasure of two females would be all the greater with J'zargo's company. She was formulating a biting response to any such remarks when J'zargo went down on one knee and grasped her hand. Her heart caught in her throat.

"Brelyna Maryon of House Telvanni, this one realizes that he can't live without you. You are the twin moons to this one's Nirn, the sweet in J'zargo's sweetroll, the honey in his mead, the moon sugar in his skooma. This one knows he is not worthy of Brelyna's many perfections, but still he must dare to ask: will Brelyna wed J'zargo, making this one the happiest Khajiit in all of Nirn?" He opened his free hand and held out a shining gold ring.

All was silent as the soldiers, jarls, Ralof, and Kharjo all gaped at them. The silence lengthened as she struggled for an answer. The J'zargo of these past weeks was truly different from the J'zargo she'd first met in Winterhold, as far as his arrogance and wandering eye went. Surely what he'd just witnessed from Deirdre and Lydia had been a stern test of the latter. Yet it hadn't seemed to affect him at all.

To stall for time, she asked about the ring. "Did that come from Forelhost?"

"It did. I snatched it from an urn. Is it not bright and shiny enough?"

"Certainly it's pretty, but I'm more concerned that it will turn me into a gnome."

J'zargo laughed. "No, after Saarthal, J'zargo learned to test items for enchantments. It has no magic." He still held it out, gazing hopefully up at her.

Oh, what the Oblivion, she thought. You only live once, although in a Dunmer's case that could be over two hundred years.

"So, you're asking that I be your mate, and you'll be mine, forsaking all others?"

"Yes, that is J'zargo's most ardent wish."

"Then I accept. As to a wedding, we'll have to talk. I don't know how they feel in Elsweyr, but my family will neither accept nor permit it. My brothers will hunt us both down if they find out. If there is a ceremony, it will have to be quiet and small, just for our friends."

"Whatever Brelyna wishes, as long as J'zargo gets to spend the rest of his life with her." He slipped the ring on her finger, then stood up and kissed her long and hard. His whiskers tickled her cheeks, as always. All around them, Ralof and Kharjo, the guards, and even the jarls clapped and shouted approval.

Just then Deirdre and Lydia came riding up. Brelyna heard them arrive, but was too preoccupied to give much notice. At last they broke off the kiss and Brelyna turned to tell her friends the news. She half expected them to still be wearing their small clothes, but no, they'd arrayed themselves properly for the event that was to come in Whiterun, Deirdre in her fine trousers, polished boots, and a brocaded tunic, her head topped by the golden crown. Lydia was back in her full steel armor, with a fresh-pressed sash bearing the queen's sigil. Despite their formal attire, both glowed with contentment.

"What did we miss?" Lydia asked, looking from one to the other.

J'zargo grinned. "Deirdre and Lydia aren't the only ones experiencing — how did you say, Brelyna? — excesses of blissful pleasure."

Laughter broke out all around, and Brelyna kissed him again, relishing J'zargo's contented purr.


	19. Chapter 19 - The Queen's Speech

**# # The Queen's Speech # #**

Deirdre paced back and forth atop the steps to Dragonsreach. Where was Brelyna? Many minutes had passed since Deirdre had sent her inside to find Jarl Hrongar. They could hardly begin this speech without him receiving the queen.

The crowd massing on the steps below her was growing impatient as well. The people had come out to greet the queen's procession as it entered the city, then followed it through the Plains District and Wind District, swelling in numbers all the while. Judging by their shouts and cheers for both Deirdre and Lydia, they were ready to hear how the Breton necromancer had been caught. But now those cheers were turning into grumbles. Deirdre also noticed the smaller numbers of people on the edges of the crowd with impassive, even hostile looks — some of those who'd made sport of the Khajiits in their prison camp, no doubt. She had no chance of winning that group over, she knew; but the speech needed to begin before they could turn away those she could convince.

Everything was set for the speech: the three jarls standing behind her; Svaldi and Garrald nearby, ready to give witness to the Breton's confession, if needed; Kharjo, the one whose testimony had put them on the right track, and who had actually apprehended the culprit; the bodies of the two Khajiits who had been the Breton's first victims; and the head of the Breton himself, thrust on a pike, leering over the crowd. It was the sort of thing Nords loved, and Deirdre was willing to give it to them if it made them more receptive to her message.

Now they waited only for Jarl Hrongar to emerge from Dragonsreach to greet them, as protocol demanded. That, and Elisif, whose whereabouts were a mystery. They had planned to meet her here and present a united front to Hrongar.

Deirdre stopped her pacing only when Lydia placed a hand on her shoulder. "Should I go in and see what's taking so long?"

"No, I'm sure Brelyna will be back soon, one way or the other."

"Maybe I should just introduce you and get this thing going," Ulfric said.

Deirdre pondered the notion. As much as she valued the symbolism of Hrongar bending the knee to her in front of his people, she couldn't risk losing the crowd. Too many of her future plans were riding on the success of the appeal she was about to make to them.

Just then the doors of Dragonsreach opened and Brelyna stepped out, smiling broadly as she approached. What could she be so happy about? It certainly wasn't her success with Hrongar, as the doors closed shut behind her and no one else followed her out. Of course there was that morning's engagement to J'zargo, and Deirdre was happy for both of them. She'd even promised them their own house in Solitude. But surely Brelyna knew how serious this speech was; she wasn't the sort to walk about with her head in the clouds when so much was at stake.

"You were in there longer than I expected." Still Brelyna just smiled. "And?"

"The jarl just has a sense of the dramatic." That seemed an odd description for Hrongar, as straight-forward a Nord as there ever was. But Brelyna didn't explain further, just looking toward the doors expectantly.

Now the doors opened again and Elisif emerged with Falk Firebeard at her side and the rest of her entourage following. Good! Maybe Elisif would explain what was going on. At least the crowd was quieter now, seeing this activity on the landing above them.

Elisif approached and knelt. "Greetings, my queen," she said in a voice that carried across the crowd. She rose. "And congratulations on capturing this murderer. Haafingar Hold is in your debt, as is all of Skyrim."

"I accept your thanks, Jarl Elisif," she replied. Then, in a lower voice: "Where's Hrongar?"

Elisif just smiled as enigmatically as Brelyna had, then went with Falk to stand near the other jarls, but as far away from Ulfric as space allowed.

What was going on? Deirdre could not understand it.

The doors opened again and out stepped two of the jarl's personal guards. And behind them came not Hrongar but his brother, Balgruuf, once more wearing the jarl's circlet.

Deirdre gasped, and looked over at Brelyna, now standing beside J'zargo. Next to J'zargo stood Ri'saad, who'd come down from Helgen for the occasion. "You could have told me."

"What, and ruin the surprise? Balgruuf would have my head."

There was no time for explanations, as Balgruuf had now arrived at the edge of the steps, to thunderous applause from the people. He knelt before her. "Greetings, my queen, our hold is in your debt."

He rose and Deirdre didn't know what to say, she was filled with so many questions.

"I'll explain later. But first we have speeches to give, eh?"

He turned to the crowd and raised his hands for silence. "People of Whiterun! We are gathered here to learn how our high queen captured the true culprit in these terrible murders, and also about her plans for our great realm. But first, a little about the events of this morning. As you may know, my brother lost the support of every part of Whiterun Hold."

The crowd responded with resounding boos and cries of "down with Hrongar!"

"This morning, he agreed to give up the throne peacefully. For the time being, I will resume duties as jarl, until a new regent can be named." Here he looked over in Deirdre and Lydia's direction with a knowing smile. Deirdre wondered what that could mean.

"My first order was to release all those Hrongar unfairly imprisoned. Reparations will be made, and all the outstanding bills Hrongar ran up will be paid. With that, I hope we can put this sad episode behind us, and I beg your forgiveness for ever allowing it." Balgruuf paused as cheers of approval swept across the crowd.

"But now it is time to turn to the more important business of the day. I present to you Jarl Ulfric of Windhelm, who needs no introduction."

Ulfric received an enthusiastic response from at least half the crowd. "People of Whiterun! I come before you in support of our High Queen's project to forge a new Skyrim! We have won our independence, but threats remain, as these recent events have shown. We must stand strong and united in the face of them, and that means putting aside our divisions!"

This remark received polite applause at best, but one lout standing on the edge shouted, "What happened to Skyrim is for the Nords, eh?"

Ulfric gave a wry smile. "Yes, that is what I used to say, but our queen has shown me a new way. Skyrim can be for all people who pledge loyalty to this great realm. I have tried to enact these principles in Windhelm, and our hold is only the better for it."

He went on to detail some of the improvements: the greater commerce, reduced crime, decreased poverty, and freedom for all to visit whatever parts of the city they pleased. It may have come as a surprise to the Nords of Windhelm, but life was better for all when none were ground down by terrible living conditions, ill-treatment by the majority, and neglect by those in charge. Now, Nords who tired of the fare in their usual taverns could receive a welcome in the New Gnisis Corner Club, where they could sample something more exotic than their usual mead. What wasn't to like?

The crowd applauded, and Deirdre saw many talking over Ulfric's points with something like approval. After such an introduction, it was tempting to think there was little for her to do in her own speech. After all, she now had five jarls standing with her, showing solid support to the crowd; only two remained who opposed her outright. But more than counting votes in a potential jarlmoot, Deirdre wanted to win the hearts and minds of the people.

She began with the part she knew they'd most heartily approve: the end of the murders and the apprehension of the culprits. She pointed to Damien as the real killer, outlining how he'd often poisoned his victims before turning his thralls loose upon them. She pointed to the bodies of those thralls, naming them as Damien's first victims and declaring them innocent in the crimes their dead bodies had been forced to commit. The crowd murmured with approval.

Next she pointed out Kharjo. "Without this brave Khajiit, we might never have captured the Breton and secured his confession." The crowd responded with only polite applause. This might be harder than she'd thought. Now for the real enemy.

"But the Breton himself was only an instrument. And who was behind him?"

"The Thalmor!" came shouts from several in the crowd.

"That's right, the Thalmor. We drove them from Skyrim, yet still they persist in opposition to our independence. Disappointed in their three attempts on my life…" Thunderous boos for the Thalmor forced her to pause here. "…they tried a new method — to turn our own hatreds and fears against us. Are we going to let them get away with it?"

Enthusiastic "nos" rang out here and there and from the jarls behind her, though many in the crowd remained silent.

"I said, are we going to let them get away with it?"

"No!" the crowd cried in unison.

"And how are we to stop them from using such tactics again? By remembering that we are one people of Skyrim, whether Nord, Breton, Dunmer, Khajiit, or any of the other races of Tamriel — and yes, even including the Altmer, as long as they pledge loyalty to our realm. For I tell you this, we cannot fight Altmer bigotry with our own bigotry, we cannot fight hatred with more hate. We must put down our prejudices on all sides, and stand together against a common foe." She paused to let that sink in, then continued in a quieter voice.

"There may come a time, and not too far off, in which we face open war with Summerset. And on that day, we will need every ally, both within Skyrim and without, standing at our side. So I ask you, people of Skyrim, are you ready to stand together to face a common enemy?"

"Hear, hear!" and "Aye!" rang out in a chorus of approval.

"Yet victory on the battlefield is not enough."

"That's right!" someone shouted. "We also need victories at sea!"

Deirdre smiled. "Yes, very likely. But what I mean to say is even that will not be enough. To have true, lasting peace, we must begin with our own hearts." She paused and took a deep breath; this was the tricky part.

"And now I would speak directly to my Nord brothers and sisters." She paused again, looking around at the mostly Nord faces in the crowd, summoning as much benevolence in her own expression as she could muster. "I know we are a better people than the face we showed the world in wrongfully imprisoning the Khajiits." It may not have been literally true, but if she convinced them it was, maybe they would begin behaving that way.

"We must root out the hatreds the Thalmor sought to exploit and replace them with respect and honor, if not with love. We must treat our neighbors just as we ourselves would be treated. We must remember that whoever seeks to sow hatred and dissension among the people of Skyrim, that person is not acting in the best interests of our realm. And we must redress the wrongs committed against our neighbors we so often call outlanders."

Again she paused to let this sink in. There were no cheers, but the crowd murmured to themselves. It seemed to her they were fairly considering the merits of these points.

"My fellow Nords, I know we can do this. And how do I know it? Because my brother Ulfric has already shown that we can. Together, we will create a Skyrim that is a light for all of Tamriel, one that will shine so bright, even the High Elves will have to put aside their bigotry and join the rest of the peoples of Tamriel, not as masters, but as equal partners in the common good."

The applause that followed seemed genuine, but not as hearty as she would have liked. She paused for another breath, taking a drink from a flagon Lydia held.

"The task will be difficult, I will not deny it. But we are the people of Skyrim after all. Together, we defeated the dragons, not once, but twice. We threw off the shackles of the Empire and the Aldmeri Dominion. And together, we'll create a stronger, more unified Skyrim, one that is ready to face all threats. One that will become a beacon of hope for all of Nirn. And now I ask you, people of Skyrim, are you with me?"

Deirdre didn't know whether it was the flattery of their egos, the mention of the recent victories, or the sense of shared purpose she was trying to create, but the response was immediate, and intense. "Yes!" and "Aye!" rang out, echoing off the new stone walls of Dragonsreach.

As the shouts began to wane, she asked again, using the power of her Voice to be heard above the crowd, "Are you with me?" Even more enthusiastic shouts of agreement. "I can't hear you down in the Wind District! Are you with me?"

The steps on which they stood, made of stone though they were, shook with the stamping feet and thunderous shouts of the people.

"Now go forth," she said when it was quiet once more. "Return to your work and your homes, but also remember to welcome a stranger, befriend someone not of your own race, help those less fortunate than you, especially the poor refugees among us. For peace and prosperity truly begin at home."

With that, the people began filing back down the steps, and Deirdre turned to her friends and the jarls. "Well, how did I do?"

Lydia practically bowled her over, rushing over to her and wrapping her in a hug. She didn't need to say anything else. Brelyna hugged her next, her eyes brimming with tears. "I've never heard you put that so well. It really is a new day in Skyrim."

Ulfric was next. "Enough of that false modesty," he said gruffly. "You know you did well. You won them over as I never could."

The other jarls took their turns congratulating her. Then Ri'saad and Kharjo came over. "This one thanks you," Ri'saad said. "Your words will make life for Khajiit in Skyrim easier."

"And how are you faring in Helgen?"

"Well, and better. Much remains to be done, but we already have temporary shelter in place. And more travelers come down from the pass everyday."

"And Kharjo thanks Queen Deirdre as well."

"No, it is I who must thank you. I meant what I said. You first identified the culprit, then kept him alive long enough to confess. All Skyrim is in your debt."

Kharjo just dipped his head in acknowledgment of this praise.

"And what will you do now? Return to Helgen with Ri'saad?"

"Yes, Kharjo still owes Ahkari and must continue working until his debt is paid. But then this one will return home."

Deirdre's eyebrows went up. "I get the feeling you'd return home immediately if you could."

"Yes, Skyrim is cold for a Khajiit, and the warm sands of Elsweyr call to this one."

"Then Skyrim's treasury will pay your debt to Ahkari, however much it is. It's the least we can do. Although, I hate to lose you."

Kharjo dipped his head again. "Kharjo thanks Queen Deirdre. Skyrim is a warmer place for Khajiit in your presence. And perhaps we will meet again."

"I look forward to it. And perhaps that will be sooner than you expect." She gave him a wink that left her friends with perplexed looks.

Ri'saad and Kharjo left and now Ralof was beside her. "Just think, a year ago you were a terrified lass running from a dragon. And now look at you."

Deirdre laughed and punched him playfully in the arm. "Terrified lass, eh? I seem to remember you running pretty fast that day as well, or was that some other Ralof?"

"No, but seriously, that speech! I've never heard anything like it. The people are on your side, and Skyrim is more unified than I've ever seen it."

"I'm glad to hear it, because I've got a plan to propose, to all of you, and if it's going to work, Skyrim must be strong and unified indeed."

"A plan, eh?" said Balgruuf. "And I have one for this jarl-regency until my son is old enough to take it on." He winked at both Deirdre and Lydia. "A feast is being laid out in the dining hall. Why don't we retire to my council chambers and sort it all out while the meal is prepared?"

"Jarl Balgruuf, of all the many things that have made me happy on this day, at the top of the list was seeing you step out that door with the jarl's circlet back where it belongs. I can't imagine anyone I'd rather see on that seat in Dragonsreach."

"Maybe you could if you knew how my bones ache and my mind wanders. But come, let's discuss it over a flagon of mead."

But the mead and the talk would have to wait, because now more of Deirdre's friends were approaching from the dwindling crowd: Aela and Vilkas, Avulstein Gray-Mane, Arcadia, and even Alfhild Battle-Born. "Come down and join us in the new Bannered Mare, if you get a moment," said Avulstein. "Ysolda runs it now, and she'd be glad to see you, and Lydia."

Last were Gerdur and Hod, the latter looking rather tired and leaner than usual.

"Thank you for coming all the way from Riverwood," Deirdre said after greeting them.

"Oh, we surely would have come just for your speech, but we were already here."

"What, more business in town?" Ralof asked.

"No, that bastard Hrongar put Hod in jail when he came to collect his debt last week. By the time I found out, you'd already left for Riften."

"By Talos, if I'd only been here," said Ralof, gripping his axe. "Where is he?"

"Now, Ralof," said his sister, "remember what Deirdre said about cultivating peace in our hearts."

"She didn't say anything about one Nord giving another a good thrashing."

"Relax, lad," said Balgruuf, "I've already taken care of my brother. Once he stepped down, I had him thrown in jail. He'll spend the same number of days there as did those he imprisoned, when added all together. It should come to several months. Hod, I hope you'll find that a just ruling." Hod nodded. "And of course, you'll be paid the debt for the lumber you've provided, and something more for your lost work. And beyond that, would you like to join us at our feast?"

Gerdur looked at Hod, who shook his head. "No, we thank you, but we just want to get back home to Riverwood. Maybe we'll get to know Deirdre's Khajiit friends better along the way." They said their farewells, then the queen's party turned to enter Dragonsreach.

As they made they way down the long central hall of the palace, Deirdre thought about what she'd told Balgruuf about the many things making her happy on this remarkable day at the end of a trying few weeks. It seemed there were too many to count. Putting an end to the killings. Exonerating the Khajiits. Bringing Skyrim together under a new banner of unity, or at least the beginnings of it.

And then there were Brelyna and J'zargo, now so secure and happy in their relationship. It had seemed so odd in the beginning, but now J'zargo was so changed she couldn't imagine a happier couple.

Except for herself and Lydia, of course. She looked over at the woman walking beside her, their arms entwined, who returned her gaze with a happiness and openness that made her glow inside. It was like having the old Lydia back. The old Lydia, yet even better. No doubt she still faced many tribulations in coming to terms with these unaccustomed feelings of fear and grief. Yet Deirdre knew it would only make her stronger, open to fear but not gripped by it, as she'd been these past months. And more open to other feelings as well. Even now, Lydia took her hand and kissed it as they climbed the steps to Balgruuf's council chambers. Deirdre was indeed the luckiest and happiest woman in Nirn.

Once settled around the large table in the center of the room, Deirdre turned to Balgruuf. "So, let's hear this plan. Mine could take longer to discuss."

"As I said, I'm too old for this jarl business. Yet it will be more than a decade before Frothar is ready to take over. What we need is someone the people look up to, view as a hero even, tough but fair, one who will hold them together, but also keep them in line when the inevitable bickering arises."

He was looking across the large table at both Deirdre and Lydia, seated close together. "That's really quite flattering, Jarl Balgruuf, but my plate…"

"Slow down, lass… my queen, I mean. You're right, your plate is too full already. No, I mean Lydia, of course."

A murmur went around the table, and Lydia herself looked stunned. "Me? I'm a soldier. What do I know about being a jarl?"

"Oh, I'll be around to advise you, and what you need to know you can learn in a few months. It's mostly collecting taxes and settling disputes. The people will accept your decisions. Tough but fair, like I said." He looked directly at Deirdre now. "That is, if the queen can spare you as the head of her personal guard."

Deirdre was still too stunned to speak.

Lydia looked over at her. "We'd have to move here together. You can't expect us to live apart. And that means moving the queen's seat of power."

Balgruuf gave a sly grin. "From what I hear, the queen rather likes Whiterun and its environs, and can't wait to get out of Castle Dour." He winked at Elisif, who blushed.

That much was certainly true, Deirdre thought. And the new Dragonsreach, though now made of stone, was still light and airy by comparison, with vaulting ceilings and high windows. The narrow, dark corridors had been kept to a minimum.

But all of that would have to wait.

"I can think of no one more worthy of the honor," she said, placing a hand on Lydia's. "Unfortunately, Lydia won't be available for service here, or anywhere else in Skyrim, for the next several months at least."

She waited a moment to let this sink in, taking in the questioning, confused looks and mutters, not least Lydia's.

Then she added: "And nor will I."

Cries of surprise came from all around.

Lydia squeezed her hand. "What do you mean? What's wrong, my love?"

Only Elisif didn't look surprised. "It's true, you really do hate Castle Dour."

"I can't deny it. But here's the real issue: before we got so caught up in investigating these murders, Lydia and my advisers and I had been discussing Skyrim's need for allies, both from its neighboring nations and provinces, and beyond. I had thought to send Brelyna and J'zargo on these diplomatic missions. And then I thought, who better than the queen herself? I wanted only to ensure the realm wasn't on the verge of falling apart before announcing my plan."

"I'll say it again," said Elisif, "you really do hate Castle Dour. And I can't blame you, I hate that dark place too. And then there are all the duties and cares of being High Queen. I could see the toll it was taking on you, and Lydia as well. And look at the both of you now, healthy and glowing and happy. It's quite a change in just a few weeks. I can see how these errands of diplomacy will be good for you."

"It's not just that," Deirdre said, though she knew it mostly was. "I truly feel that our need for allies is our most pressing concern. After failing in this most recent tactic, the Thalmor must surely be preparing an all-out attack. And as capable as Brelyna and J'zargo will be, I'm the one with the contacts, Kematu in Hammerfell, my mother's family in High Rock, Malukah the Bard in Cyrodiil. Kharjo will soon be in Elsweyr. Even Shahvee, whom I befriended in Windhelm, could give us contacts in Blackmarsh." She knew she was stretching it now. One conversation did not an alliance make. "And I made Faralda arch-mage of the College of Winterhold. She must have contacts with the more reasonable factions in Summerset who oppose Thalmor dominance."

"You mean to travel to Summerset?" Elisif asked. "You do love an adventure, don't you?"

"My Queen," said Ralof, "this will be dangerous. Allow me to accompany you with a squad of soldiers, in addition to your Royal Guard."

"No, my friend, we will need to travel secretly, and our party must be small, traveling across country off the main roads wherever possible. Not even the Royal Guard will accompany the four of us."

"Again ensuring maximum adventure." Elisif smiled.

"And General Ralof," Deirdre went on, "you're needed here. Elisif will need you to remain in command of the army."

"What?" Elisif was no longer smiling.

"You know I always thought you should be High Queen. I would name you Queen Regent. The realm will be in good hands with both you and Falk running things. That is, if the rest of the jarls agree?"

It took a moment, but they all nodded, even Ulfric, seated at the other end of the table from Elisif. "Falk's already had many years running the kingdom," he said, "let him run it some more."

"Yet it is a new Skyrim you'll be ruling in my stead. Are you both ready for the challenge?"

Elisif looked at Falk, who nodded. "My husband always wanted everyone, not just the Nords, to be treated fairly, and I wanted that too. We will do our best to see that everyone is treated equally before the law, to settle all disputes between the different peoples justly and swiftly, before they can fester, and do everything we can to promote goodwill among all the people."

"I couldn't have said it better myself." Deirdre looked around at Lydia, then Brelyna and J'zargo. They all looked eager. "What do you say, my friends? Shall we stop by Solitude to collect our necessaries, then be on our way? I've heard Hammerfell is lovely at this time of year."

Lydia raised her mug. "To new adventures! I mean, new errands of diplomacy!" Laughter rang around the table, along with hearty shouts of "Hear, hear!"

Deirdre drank deep from her own mug. It was the sweetest mead she'd ever tasted.


	20. Chapter 20 - Epilogue

**# # Epilogue # #**

"The queen is coming, make way for the queen!"

Danil spun around, lowering the wooden sword he was about to swing at Addvar's head. Maybe Addvar hadn't heard, because he whacked Danil in the back with his own weapon.

"Ow, cut it out!" Danil said. "Didn't you hear the queen is coming? And look, there's Lydia. Hurry, or we'll miss them!"

Word of the queen and her companions capturing the murderer of Heimvar and the Jurard family had reached Dragon Bridge two days before. That had meant renewed freedom for Danil, after more weeks spent indoors. "I'll not have you out and about with a killer on the loose," his mother had said, even as the murders had moved on to Morthal and Dawnstar and beyond. "No," she said every time he pleaded for his freedom, "not until they capture those Khajiits."

And then it turned out not to be Khajiits at all, but a Breton. And Khajiits had helped capture him! They were already singing songs about it at the tavern, even though only a few weeks before the entire town had been ready to put every Khajiit's head on a pike. The world of adults was confusing.

Queen Deirdre had made a great speech in Whiterun calling for unity among all Skyrim's peoples, and just yesterday messengers had arrived in town, posting bills with the text of the speech wherever they could. Danil had tried to read it but it was filled with words like amity, Aldmeri Dominion, Thalmor, treachery, and reconciliation.

All he knew was, now that the manhunt was over it wouldn't be long before the queen and her entourage passed through town on their way to Solitude. So he and Addvar had taken their post on the hill above town, with a clear view of the bridge over the Karth River and beyond. They'd passed their time by practicing their sword skills, but they'd become so preoccupied that now they'd nearly missed the queen entirely.

"Come on!" Danil said, running down the hill.

They reached the main road through town just as the procession stopped in front of the Four Shields Tavern, where Faida was waiting with saddle cups for the queen and her companions. In front were the bannermen, followed by four guards all arrayed in sashes with the queen's sigil. Then the four companions: the queen, this time dressed in a fine silk shirt and trousers, not the mage's robes that had hidden her features the last time he'd seen her. Her blond hair with the braids on either side of her face shone in the sunlight. She seemed happier and less worried than before, sitting her horse close to Lydia's, passing a cup back and forth. And there was Lydia herself, looking less stoic and fearsome this time, now wearing just a padded gambeson rather than full steel armor.

Next to them, the Khajiit mage — J'zargo, he knew from the new songs — said something he couldn't hear. Lydia replied with a severe look. But then she broke out in a smile and all four laughed. Brelyna, the Dunmer mage, looked rather angry with her red eyes — he'd never seen a Dunmer before. But she smiled and laughed, too, and placed a hand on J'zargo's shoulder. The four looked quite companionable, and what he wouldn't have given to be in their midst!

"Okay, I'm going!" Danil said.

"No, wait," said Addvar, clutching at his sleeve, but it was too late. He ran out into the road and between the horses of the guards in front. The animals skittered and one guard exclaimed in surprise, but they did nothing to stop him as he approached the queen and her companions.

Dropping to one knee, he drew his wooden sword from its belt and dug its point into the cobbled road, both hands resting on the hilt. "My queen, I, Danil of Dragon Bridge, offer you my fealty and service, from this day forward, until your Grace release me or death take me or the world shall end. Thus I swear by the Eight and by the Three."

Addvar ran up and knelt beside him. "And thus I, Addvar of Dragon Bridge, also swear by the Nine, my Queen."

All was silent for a moment as Danil kept his eyes on the ground. At last he heard Queen Deirdre dismounting. Daring to look up, he saw her standing over him, smiling. Behind her, Lydia still sat her horse, towering over them like a mountain.

"Such strong young lads," the queen said, "both Breton and Nord. What do you think, Lydia, do we have room for them in the Royal Guard?"

"Aye, my queen, for lads such as these, we'll make room."

The queen stood over them for a moment longer, but didn't ask them to rise. Instead she knelt down before them on both knees, her expression now serious.

"Tell me, Danil, Addvar, what do you like to do when you're not hitting each other with those swords?"

"Well," said Danil, gulping. "Sometimes my mother makes me gather berries for her. But I don't really like it."

"And sometimes," Addvar said hesitantly, "sometimes we have twig boat races in the Karth River." Silly Addvar! Twig boat races were for babes, not brave young warriors. How would the queen ever accept their service now?

But the queen smiled and said, "That sounds like fun. I wish I could join you." Then she put a hand over Danil's where it still rested on the hilt of his sword. She held his gaze, and he thought he saw a great sadness in her eyes. He was too young to name it wisfulness. "I truly appreciate your loyalty and your enthusiasm. But do not be so quick to throw away the doings of childhood. Too soon you will be grown and then, Akatosh willing, you'll have years and years to be an adult, with all its cares and responsibilities. You won't always have a mother who needs you to pick berries, and you won't always have time for something as simple as a twig boat race. Do you understand?"

Danil nodded, though he wasn't sure he did, and so did Addvar.

"Then, in a few years, when you're grown and strong, and if you still want to enter my service, you may come before me and I'll gladly accept."

The queen stood and bade them rise. Then, instead of knighting them with their own swords, she gave each a hug, a hug Danil would remember for the rest of his life.

The queen remounted and Danil looked over to see his and Addvar's mothers beckoning to them impatiently. "Get out of there!" his mother hissed.

He watched the queen's procession until it went out of sight around the bend in the road. Then he didn't know what he felt. He'd spoken to the queen! She'd even touched him! But then again, she'd treated him like a child. Why couldn't she see that he was nearly grown, nearly ready to fight great battles on her behalf? He wasn't too young to become a squire, or a page, or a messenger boy at the castle.

But he could be patient. He imagined a Royal Guardsman would need great stores of patience to keep watch over the queen. It wouldn't all be glorious battles with dragons and draugr and High Elves.

And besides, he still had to get Addvar back for that unguarded hit he'd taken earlier. He spun on his friend. "Raise your weapon, vile usurper! You'll die for insulting my queen!"

"Hey," his friend said, "I'm the one defending the queen's honor, not you!" Addvar blocked his first blow, then countered with a thrust that nearly got him in the chest.

"Boys, boys!" said his mother. "Take that out of the high street before you hit someone or you get run over by a horse."

Danil laughed as he chased Addvar down toward the Karth River. Maybe they'd have a twig boat race once they got tired of the swords.

After all, he couldn't ignore his queen's very first command.

**# # The End # #**


End file.
